


Zones

by pontmercyfriend



Series: Danger Days [4]
Category: Bandom, Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys - My Chemical Romance (Album), My Chemical Romance, The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Comic)
Genre: Cars, Desert, Injury, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Nonbinary Party Poison (Danger Days), Prophetic Dreams, Worldbuilding, Zones Slang (Fabulous Killjoys)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:00:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 87,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22765126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pontmercyfriend/pseuds/pontmercyfriend
Summary: Consciousness comes back in pieces, the walls and ceiling falling into place like loading pixels, and he blinks a few times to clear his vision. It’s almost fully dark out—before, the sunlight was filtering rebelliously through the cracks between the wooden boards, but now there’s nothing but the faint light of what looks like a battery-powered plastic lantern sitting on the floor next to the mattress.Mikey, he thinks. He tries to stand up.
Relationships: Fun Ghoul/Party Poison (Danger Days), Party Poison (Danger Days)/Original Male Character(s), Party Poison/Show Pony (Danger Days)
Series: Danger Days [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1636693
Comments: 3
Kudos: 65





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spacestationtrustfund](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/gifts).



The desert is hot and bright and an entirely different topography than expected. If he thinks about it, Gerard had kind of been imagining the desert as one great flat plane of nothing, no rocks or trees or anything distinctive, just smooth golden sand as far as the eye could see like it always is in the Mousekat cartoons where Mousekat fights monsters in the desert to protect Battery City from evil.

He doesn’t get Mousekat fighting monsters. Instead, he gets the ugliest tree he could possibly have imagined, covered in flaky bark and small, sharp spines. It doesn’t even have leaves, just clusters of bright green spikes and periodic knots in the wood.

“Dude, G,” says Mikey. “What the heck  _ is _ that?”

Gerard swallows. “Um,” he says. His mouth feels dry. “A tree?”

His eyes haven’t quite adjusted to the sudden brightness of the sun hovering above them, but he doesn’t think he’s hallucinating. It doesn’t look like any tree he’s seen before. It’s definitely a tree, though. A new kind of tree. A desert kind of tree.

The weird spiky trees are everywhere, it turns out. Grotesque landmarks. They’re ugly and knobby and don’t provide much shade, so there doesn’t seem to be any real point to them besides their existence. It’s just something else that he thought he knew about the world outside Battery City that’s been proven untrue.

He thinks, I don’t know what else could be a lie.

Shut up, G, he thinks. It sounds like Mikey’s voice. Mikey would probably tell him to quit being ridiculous if he said anything out loud, anyway. It hurts to think about the laundry list of lies he’s going to have to sort through. His head is spinning slightly, but that could just be the sun that’s hurting his eyes.

Soul-searching introspection is a daydream for another time, though, because Mikey is seriously starting to look like he’s going to pass out. They haven’t been walking for that long, but his skin has gone all clammy, and he’s chilled to the touch. He doesn’t know what heatstroke would look like—he’s never had cause to research it before—but he knows that the cool sweat and the slight shivering can’t be good. He can almost feel what Mikey must be feeling, the fevered chill and the dizzying nausea of overexposure.

“C’mon,” he mutters, steering them towards a cluster of those gnarled spiky trees, “we can take a break.”

The two of them huddle up in the pathetic excuse for shade that the clump of trees half-heartedly offer and try to make their meager supply of water last longer. Mikey shakes his water bottle, the contents sloshing around, and says irritably, “Why the heck didn’t you pack more water, you idiot? We’re in the freaking  _ desert _ .”

Gerard doesn’t really know what to say in response to that. He knows trying to apologize wouldn’t be the right thing to do either. It’s not like he thought this far ahead in the semi-formed plan.

He kind of didn’t think they would even make it out of Battery City.

They eat most of the food they’d packed in their bags within the first couple of hours. They didn’t know if they would have to run for it or hide, so the food isn’t much—only enough for maybe two full meals, maybe a little more than that if they ration it to make it last for longer. They’ll just have to trust that there will be somewhere else where they can find something edible. He thinks they could probably eat some sort of desert plant, or maybe even catch some sort of animal. They’ve seen prickly cacti with their colorful flowers, and scuttling lizards with long tails and strangely shaped eyes. It isn’t something he had really considered before leaving. How do you catch a lizard without any sort of weapon or trap? How do you get liquid out of a cactus without impaling yourself on the spines?

There are small, dirt-colored lizards darting across the ground, vanishing into crevices between rocks and tufts of coarse grass. Their bug-like eyes and flickering tongues unnerve him; he doesn’t think he could catch them, even if he tried. They move too fast, and there isn’t enough meat on their bones anyway.

Mikey looks up from his water bottle, chewing on his lower lip. Gerard knows he’s going to say he’s fine to keep moving, even though he still looks pale and unsteady, so Gerard says quickly, “How about we wait for a little longer? I think the sun might start setting soon, then it’ll cool down.” Mikey gives him a look like he knows it’s complete bullshit, but he settles back down with his shoulders against the rough bark of the ugly trees anyway.

They sit in silence for a while. Gerard knows that licking his lips won’t help them to stay hydrated, but he can’t help it; there isn’t nearly enough water left to satisfy him. He has a headache and his throat is dry and his eyes hurt and his skin hurts and his legs hurt, but he doesn’t want to give up now, not when they’ve just made it out of Battery City.

Or, he thinks.  _ Or _ . He wants to, of course he does, but he can’t. Not yet; not while Mikey is counting on him.

He leans his head on Mikey’s shoulder, trying to breathe through his nose so he won’t expend extra heat onto Mikey’s skin. “Hey, Mikes, you ready to keep walking?”

Mikey looks like he’d rather be doing anything but walking, but he nods anyway. He’s been watching a gecko move slowly across a dust-brown slab of rock, its legs shifting sideways as its head flits from one angle to another. “Yeah,” he says.

They keep walking. It seems like they’ve been walking for hours when they stop again the next time, for a little more water and a few moments of rest. Gerard’s throat feels as dry and rough as sandpaper, and his tongue tastes parched, like the desert has infiltrated even his mouth. He has to swallow several times before he can get any words out, and even then his voice is barely more than a raspy croak. “You okay?” he asks.

Mikey is huddled on the ground, knees drawn up to his chest, his shirt clinging to him. His skin is splotchy and red from the sun; a strip on his nose is already peeling. He nods, quick and sharp, but doesn’t say anything.

“I think we must be almost to the edge of Zone Two by now,” says Gerard, even though he has no idea. The city faded out of view a while ago. “We’ll find somewhere to stay until we’re used to the whole thing pretty soon.”

He determinedly doesn’t think about the possibility that there won’t be anywhere for them to stay. There will be, he thinks. There will be because there has to be.

He doesn’t know about the long-term dangers of the radiation, beyond the ubiquitous warning that there even  _ is _ danger. He doesn’t know how cold the desert could get at night, or what types of animals are dwelling in the sand—he knows about scorpions and spiders and coyotes from reading textbooks in school, but he thinks it’s probably a different situation when you encounter them up close and personal instead of grayscale and two-dimensional on a glossy page. Everything he’s ever heard about the desert has described it as primarily uninhabitable.

He also doesn’t know what will happen when they inevitably run into the  _ people _ who somehow manage to live in the Zones. He has to keep reminding himself not to think of them as  _ terrorists _ .

This isn’t the only time that citizens from the city have left, he thinks, trying to reassure himself somewhat. It can’t be too uncommon of an experience, probably. There has to be something else close by, something other than the radiation-soaked animals and dry, dry dust.

They’re almost completely out of water, and it’s this fact which drives them to start walking again. The only food left is some dehydrated fruit snacks like they usually bring along to school, but even thinking about eating makes Gerard’s mouth feel even drier. His stomach twists unpleasantly. He distracts himself by thinking about swimming, being engulfed in the cool water, submerged with his eyes closed. He thinks he read somewhere once that you can trick your body into thinking it’s not as thirsty as it really is if you imagine you’re actually drinking.

There’s no way to tell how long they’ve been walking. Gerard is just starting to open his mouth to suggest taking another break when Mikey trips over something in the sand, and Gerard’s suggestion comes out as a hoarse, worried croak.

Mikey stumbles and barely manages to catch himself, arms windmilling for a moment before he gets his balance back. He turns to look at what tripped him up—at first it looks like nothing more than a couple of irregularly shaped rocks, sticking out from the ground. Mikey grunts when he brushes himself off, just a puff of air, and Gerard thinks, oh—and then again, when he finally looks closer,  _ oh _ . He feels suddenly sick to his stomach.

It’s a skeleton, old and cracked. Dust inhabits the porous gaps in the bone. The skull is long, narrow, tapering into a point at the tip; one of the front incisors has been broken off, leaving behind a jagged spur. The eye sockets gaze balefully at the two of them as they stand there motionlessly.

Probably it was just some kind of animal and nothing close to human, based on the rough structure of the remnants of the skeleton—the spine curves at an unnatural angle, snaking down into the burial dust. It could even have been a normal animal, not irradiated or mutated; it’s difficult to tell. The bones are bleached white and dry from exposure. Mikey kicks what looks like part of the collapsed ribcage, and several pieces break off and fall into the packed dirt.

It shouldn’t be sinister. They’ve seen skeletons before, in medical textbooks and anatomical replications in classrooms, but something about this particular sight is unnerving. Gerard wants, suddenly, to be anywhere but where he is.

“Well, at least we know something bigger lives out here,” he says.

“There’s birds too,” Mikey mumbles. They’ve both seen the black spots in the sky high above, far away, circling lazily. Too distant to determine if they’re irradiated or not.

They keep walking because there isn’t another option. Gerard’s water bottle is completely empty, even though he’s held it upside down over his tongue to catch the last few drops, and subsequently almost tripped over his own feet because he wasn’t looking where he was going. He nearly drops the water bottle, fumbling with it, but tightens his grip reflexively before it can slip through his fingers.

A moment later he realizes he’s not standing on sand anymore, but something much sturdier, firmer.

“Shit,” Mikey says. He licks his lips pointlessly.

There’s a road stretching out in front of them, half-covered in sand and tangled weeds.

Part of it was probably asphalt at one point, but the desert has reclaimed most of the road and turned it into packed dirt and clay, solid and dry. A few loose bricks are scattered around, cracked and crumbling into grit. More importantly, there are tire tracks in the clay—someone uses this road, or at least someone  _ has _ used it in the past.

Which means they’re not alone. He looks at Mikey; he knows Mikey’s thinking the same thing that he is.

“I guess that means there really are people out here,” Gerard says. He rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand; if he tries to focus on any one thing in particular for too long, his vision goes blurry. He wonders if that’s just a side effect of the sun being so bright, or if he’s going to end up needing glasses like Mikey. He doesn’t know if there would be a way to find some, now that they’re not in the city.

“Yeah,” says Mikey. He scuffs the sole of his shoe against one of the rocks that are lining the edge of the road.

Following the road doesn’t go anywhere immediately—Gerard had tried his best not to get his hopes up, and he hadn’t said anything to Mikey in case the fantasy was shattered, but after a while of walking along the road and not finding anything, he admits some level of defeat. He doesn’t know how far from the city they are now. He wishes furtively that he had found a way to bring some sort of actual map, although it probably wouldn’t be much help since he doesn’t know which way they’re heading anymore. For all he knows, they could be walking back towards the city instead of away from it.

The road does eventually lead them to a fork, two paths of asphalt stretching out in separate directions; a crooked wooden sign at the bend proclaims the area to be ROUTE GUANO. A slightly larger sign, metallic and dull, the telltale white-and-black palette of Better Living, states DANGER: IRRADIATED AREA.

“Look, Mikes,” Gerard says, pointing. “Did y’know, there’s radiation in this area?”

Mikey blinks at him, squinting in the glare of the sun. He’s been blinking a lot, and his skin is still flushed, especially his nose. Gerard puts a hand on his forehead to feel how hot he is; he thinks he can remember—

He pulls his hand back like he’s been burned instead of Mikey. He knows that Better Living erased all memories of their mother and all that’s left is what he’s uncovered in the p-files and m-mod records, but for a moment, he almost thought he could remember—someone else laying a cool hand on his forehead to check his temperature, brushing the hair out of his eyes—

“’M fine,” Mikey says. Gerard shakes himself out of his haze of confusion and sets his hand on Mikey’s face again; the reddened areas are hotter than normal, but the rest of his skin is cool to the touch, almost clammy. He doesn’t know if that means he’s overreacting, hypersensitive to Mikey’s every change in health. He doesn’t know what the symptoms of heatstroke are. He doesn’t know what to do besides keep walking.

They choose the path that leads to the left, for no particular reason. There’s nothing visible for as far as they can see except for ugly trees and saw-toothed grass and the endless expanse of dust.

The first living thing larger than a lizard that they encounter is a jackrabbit, bursting out from a clump of bushes and scaring them both half to death as it lopes across the road. It seems bigger than it should be, its ribs visible through its gray-brown fur, its eyes the unnatural bright-green color of radiation-warped things.

“Jesus,” Gerard breathes, rubbing his hand across his face. The rabbit vanishes behind a hill of sand.

Then he thinks, there must be some sort of food nearby. Even irradiated animals can’t survive for long without food and water, not out in the desert. Mikey seems to be thinking the same thing; he takes hold of Gerard’s sleeve with one hand and pulls, impatient.

They stumble across a rusting truck chassis next, the metal frame and the wheels still mostly intact. The outer tires are long gone, the rubber either rotted away or repurposed; Mikey swings his leg at a rust-orange patch of metal, his shoe clanging off the surface.

Gerard grabs his arm. “Quit it, it’s sharp. You wanna get sliced up? We don’t have any medicine out here, dumbass.”

Mikey looks over at him with wide eyes. He’s only an inch or so taller; when he slouches, he seems miniscule. His eyes apologize silently, and he tugs his arm away. Dying of an infected cut would be a stupid way to die, Gerard thinks, glancing back at the exoskeleton of the chassis. Mikey’s probably thinking the same thing.

He’s figured out by now that the sign at the crossroads was meant as a street sign of sorts—they’re walking along Route Guano. He tells himself that it’s a good thing that they’re following a road, that it means they’ll eventually stumble across some civilization or other, that there has to be something out here besides rocks and sand and patchy vegetation and unnaturally glowing animals. It’s almost like he’s hallucinating, when he sees the faint moving blur somewhere further along the road.

Probably he’s just imagining things, thinking about it so hard his mind tricked him into thinking he saw something. He rubs his eyes, blinks quickly a couple of times, and decides he’s most likely just hoping too much. He doesn’t say anything at first, for Mikey’s sake—just in case it  _ is _ nothing more than a mirage caused by the heat waves rising off the sand.

Mikey nudges him a few minutes later, though. This time, they can both clearly make out that there’s something—someone? moving along the road towards them, running forwards at an unnatural speed, arms swinging at their sides. At first, uncertain, he thinks their head is inhumanly large, but he realizes a moment later that it’s just a blue-and-white spotted motorcycle helmet, with the reflective orange visor flipped down to cover their eyes.

The newcomer is wearing roller skates, which explains the speed and odd lopsided gait, and polka-dotted tights. Gerard almost doesn’t believe his eyes, even though he knows Mikey’s looking at the same thing he is. He thinks, maybe it’s still a mirage? but he doesn’t think that even his imagination could come up with something as weird as this.

“Hey, strangers,” says the skater, stopping in front of them with a dramatic full spin, arms extended, a bright burst of color on wheels. “New kids? You undergrads coming solid from the Battery, looking to enlist with the rats crawling around out here?”

Gerard licks his lips ineffectively; his tongue feels so impossibly dried-out and dusty, like a piece of old leather. “What’s it to you,” he croaks, trying for defensive but knowing he probably just sounds pathetic.

The skater doesn’t  _ seem _ hostile, but he hasn’t overlooked the colorful raygun ( _ blaster _ , he remembers, thinking of Baby and the juvie halls in the city) strapped to their hip, the belt slung low and easy but still definitely within immediate reach. He’s only seen weapons like that on draculoids and Exterminators before, and those were white, not hot pink.  _ Nothing  _ is hot pink in the city.

“Woah, cool the carburetors, I’m not gonna ghost you,” says the skater, holding up their hands in surrender. They’re wearing white fingerless gloves. “Least, not before I get you fixed up some. You thirsty? Looks like your friend here is boutta pass out, and unless you’re a coupla wave heads, I don’t think you want that sorta thing to happen to ya quite yet. Here.” They unhook a water canteen from their belt and hold it out, a peace offering. “Drink up, tumbleweeds. Heat sickness ain’t something to take easy, out here.”

Mikey takes the container first, and drinks from it gratefully.

Gerard’s fingers twitch—he feels almost incorporeal from thirst—but he doesn’t think the skater would have poisoned their own water supply, so he takes the water when Mikey’s finished and drinks as well.

The water is the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted in his entire life, soothing and cool and impossibly refreshing. He thinks about his imaginary swimming pool. The real thing is a thousand times better.

When they’ve both finished drinking, the skater takes the canteen back and spins around a couple more times. “There’s a safe house close to here, just on the edge of Zone Two. You kids almost hopped a full Z! I’ll take you dustbabies there, get you cleaned up a bit, then if you fancy tagging along when I head back to the end of the world to blow some shit up on the airwaves, that’d be the fuckin’ bonus track. Sound shiny enough for you kids?”

There’s really nothing good to say in response to that; Gerard doesn’t think he understands half of what the skater just said to them, but he gets the general gist, and it doesn’t sound like they’re going to be murdered or eaten alive or anything terribly bad. He nods mutely and manages to stand up on shaky legs.

He catches a glimpse of something dangling around their neck, flashing and catching the light—a key, an actual key like the ones he’s seen in history books, from the years before passcards replaced all metal.

“Oh, and for the p-files,” says the skater, rolling backwards with ease, supremely unconcerned by everything, “I’m Show Pony, by the way, but you can call me anything’ you like, kiddos, I’ll respond whenever I’m called, s’long as you mind your manners or someone else’s. We rust-free? We seeing eye-to-eye? All right! Now let’s jet, before the shadows come out to catch us.”

Show Pony is wearing a white shirt that stops just below their sternum and says NOISE in big black block letters. They flip the visor shut on their helmet, wiggle their fingers enticingly, and lead the way along the dusty road.

And then there’s nothing to do but follow along and hope and hope.

The safe house turns out to be a little shack nestled behind some rocks, looking like it’s on its last legs, only a few breezes and maybe a helping push or two away from collapsing completely. There are a few piles of scrap metal leaned against the front wall. The windows are covered with cardboard, fastened down with bright blue duct tape.

The skater—Show Pony—shoves the door open and glides inside without even looking back, so Gerard glances nervously at Mikey (who just shrugs like he couldn’t care less) and follows their guide into the unknown. Some part of him is screaming to  _ stop! _ and to be more cautious—they don’t even know this person, what if they’re just acting nice as a ploy, to lure them in—but mostly he wants to get out of the heat. Show Pony is offering them that much, at least.

He doesn’t have the slightest idea how to react to Show Pony. The words they use sound like Baby’s, but their accent is different—sharper, looser, almost softer. Something about their face seems familiar, but he’s sure he hasn’t seen them before. He thinks he would remember if he had.

The shack is divided into two rooms, with a dark green curtain separating them. It’s shadowed inside, with the cardboard blocking out the sun’s rays. Mikey seems to be doing a lot better now that he’s out of the sun and able to sit down. Show Pony gives him a little more water, which brings some of the color back to his face. Gerard hovers nervously, even after Show Pony reassures them both that Mikey only has a mild case of sunburn, nothing as serious as radiation sickness. He sits down on the floor and rolls his eyes at Gerard when Gerard checks his forehead for the third time.

“It’ll hit you soon enough, kid,” Show Pony points out; Gerard turns red and looks away.

It does. The nausea comes first, rolling over him in waves, and he staggers to the doorway so he can puke into the dust outside the door. Nothing much comes up, but the bile burns his throat and his eyes water. He wipes his mouth shakily. Don’t cry, he thinks. Don’t cry don’t cry.

Mikey is crouched beside him, holding him up when Gerard shivers violently and retches again. His hair isn’t long enough to get in the way, but Mikey brushes it behind his ears anyway, tentative but familiar. Gerard closes his eyes and leans into the comfort of Mikey’s touch.

The nausea had been overpowering any other sensations, but now that it’s ebbed somewhat, he registers dully that his head is pounding like he’s been slammed against something solid. The headache pulses behind his eyes, and the pain almost makes him throw up again, but he swallows and lets Mikey move a hand over his shoulder, and he’s okay. He’s okay. He has to be.

There’s a makeshift bed slouched against one wall. It’s little more than an old mattress with broken springs and a lingering smell of dust and mold, but it’s better than nothing; he sinks gratefully onto the mattress and curls up there, shaking and miserable and sunburnt. Mikey touches his cheek softly and starts to move away, but Gerard flails wildly and manages to grab onto his wrist. “Stay,” he croaks. “Please.”

Mikey looks down at him. His eyes are round and blurry behind the lenses of his glasses; his face is expressionless. But he sits down again, shifting a little so that he can lie down, stretching out until he’s wrapped around Gerard’s side. He’s definitely taller, Gerard thinks deliriously. He can feel the heat of Mikey’s breath on the back of his neck.

He doesn’t know how long he drifts nauseatingly in and out of consciousness before the dreams start.

Mikey doesn’t sleep; he’s wide awake now, unable to rest, full of nervous energy. He gets up as soon as he’s sure Gerard is completely asleep. He flutters about anxiously, checking that no one’s followed them and that the sun can’t break through the cardboard barrier, wanting to help but not knowing what to do or how to do it. He knows that Gerard is lying right there next to him, but it doesn’t  _ feel _ like it. He can’t have come all this way just to lose his brother again. He only settles down when Show Pony reassures him that none of them are in any serious danger. His own skin is still splotchy-red and flaking off in dry pieces that fascinate him. Show Pony tells him not to pick at his skin or he’ll just make it worse later, but it’s difficult to remember. His fingertips are blistered and peeling.

“So,” says Show Pony, settling comfortably against the wall opposite the old mattress and pulling their helmet onto their lap, “tell me boutcha, kid. Whaddya like, whaddya dislike, whaddya looking for coming out here to be a killer of joy?”

“A—a what?”

“Killjoys, ‘s the word for you an’ your friend—little lost kiddos who wake up an’ don’t wanna subscribe to the Battery’s regimen of pill-popping monolithic white walls. You both quit the pills before you left, yeah?”

“I—I mean—” Mikey hesitates. “Kind of? I mean, yes. Yeah.”

Show Pony leans their elbows on the sides of the helmet. “By any chance, you wouldn’ta happened to run into an old friend of mine, goes by the name of Baby, pink hair, slashed mouth, missing an eye? Been meaning to talk to ’em for a while, but never got round to posting a letter.”

Mikey thinks back, but he can’t remember ever meeting anyone that fits the description, even though he has the nagging feeling that he  _ should _ know. He wishes Gerard were awake, so he wouldn’t have to try to hold a conversation; it’s been a while since he’s spoken to someone who can’t understand what he means without his having to say it.

“Sorry,” he says, looking away. “I don’t—I don’t  _ think _ so.”

“Aw, ‘s okay, kid—hey, it’s all milkshakes.” Show Pony waves a hand. “Do y’know bout juvie halls?”

Mikey pulls a face at that. “Yeah. G, uh, my brother, he talked to a bunch of people before we left. I didn’t really make as many connections, I guess.”

“Kid,” says Show Pony firmly, “listen to me. Get your ears on. Dontcha ever tell anybody your names, you hear? Better’ll tryta use that against you, much’s they can. Now, you two are actual brothers, arentcha? Don’t let that secret outta the bag either. When your brother wakes up, you can pick some new names and tell me your backstory in full, but I wouldn’t wantcha giving away any secrets without him there too.”

“Oh,” Mikey says. He can feel his face turning red. “I—I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t worry bout it. We all make mistakes.” Show Pony rests their chin on the top of the helmet and looks over at Mikey. “’S gonna be atomic anyhow.”

Mikey opens his mouth to say something just as Gerard rolls over and lets out a stifled sound, his face contorting in pain, and Mikey flinches like he’s the one whose skin is burning, not his brother.

He looks over at Show Pony, seeking reassurance, but Show Pony is just watching him curiously. Mikey chews on his lower lip, worrying the already cracked skin. “Is—um, is my brother gonna be okay?”

“He’ll be fine, motorbaby, ’s just a bad case of the dust mouth. Didn’t think ahead when you were packing yourselves some water, did ya? But it isn’t as bad as serious radiation poisoning or the VMA, so you don’t really have anything to worry bout. He’ll be all bright an’ shiny in no time, cross my heart and cross my throat.”

“Oh. Okay,” says Mikey. It feels stupid, now, to have been worrying about Gerard dying. He relaxes enough to rest his shoulders against the wooden panels of the wall, and glances over at Gerard, still curled up on the mattress, pale and shivering. He can wait it out, he thinks. He can wait it out if that’s what he has to do.

When he opens his eyes and he’s standing on a hill with Battery City visible against the skyline, the first thing he thinks is, god damn it, not again, you  _ promised _ .

His thoughts are interrupted by a wheezy chuckle, and he spins around to see someone standing behind him.

She’s dressed in a black robe that shifts and gleams like it’s made of scales or—feathers, he thinks, looking more closely. She’s wearing a feathered headdress, and a white mask that covers her face. Her entire body is surrounded by a faint purple glow that sticks and lingers like a diffusion of perfume.

She says,  _ I guess you should have known that things wouldn’t be over so easily, but then again, we can all be stupidly optimistic at times _ .

He doesn’t know what to say, but it doesn’t seem to matter. She waves a gnarled hand at the city, which he realizes is a crumbling ruin, smoke rising from the ashes and rubble. Her fingernails look like talons.

_ You don’t believe in me either _ , she tells him,  _ but maybe you’ll believe in the ruins _ .

The city is melting, piece by piece. He looks down at his hands and realizes, absently, that his own flesh is melting as well, dripping onto the ground like candle wax and leaving his bones exposed.

It hurts.

He turns back to look at her, but instead he sees himself. His face, his eyes wide and shocked, skin unspooling from the muscle in strips, leaving the flesh underneath shiny and pinkish. Like raw meat, like the aftermath of a chemical burn.

He can hear the echoes of voices, faint and wrapped in static feedback. Something that sounds almost like Mikey’s voice, low and worried. He thinks if he wakes up and looks down, the ground would be the smooth white tile floor of the bathroom, pill capsules scattered everywhere.

_ You don’t have to wake up yet _ , she murmurs into his ear, and he spins around.

She’s dangling something yellow from her fingers. Her hands are wrapped in strips of cloth, spiraling up her arms.

A mask, he thinks. There’s a crack running across it.

She leans in close, until the feathers brush against his cheek. She says without moving her mouth,  _ keep running, motorbaby _ .

He tries to turn back towards the horizon to see the city, but all he can make out is the forbidding emptiness of the desert, sand as far as the eye can see. He feels flushed and unreal; when he holds up his hands, he can almost see through his skin. His fingertips are glowing, green and poisonous.

He thinks it might almost be better if his skin did just peel off completely so it would stop hurting so much.

Consciousness comes back in pieces, the walls and ceiling falling into place like loading pixels, and he blinks a few times to clear his vision. It’s almost fully dark out—before, the sunlight was filtering rebelliously through the cracks between the wooden boards, but now there’s nothing but the faint light of what looks like a battery-powered plastic lantern sitting on the floor next to the mattress.

Mikey, he thinks. He tries to stand up.

Getting to his feet proves to be a difficult and painful task. When he rubs his face, everything hurts; he thinks he probably looks like a shedding snake, with all his skin coming off. He sways a little when he takes a step towards the other end of the room and ends up creeping forwards with one shoulder pressed against the warm wood of the wall, supporting him.

Show Pony is sitting on a thick gray blanket with their back against the opposite wall, their helmet resting on their knees. Mikey is seated next to them; the two of them are talking quietly, indistinguishable. He thinks if he closes his eyes again, he could hear their voices even if he weren’t awake.

“Good morning to ya too, sunshine,” Show Pony says cheerfully, and Gerard groans as loudly as he can in response, rubbing his eyes with shaky hands. “Weather sirens’ll probably start blaring soon, judging by the limeade clouds in the distance, so we’ll be here for a good long track. You hungry?”

His stomach turns over unpleasantly at the thought of food, but he hasn’t eaten in almost half a day, so he nods anyway. He manages to make his way over to where Mikey is sitting on the blanket; Mikey gives him a small and worried smile.

Show Pony vanishes into the other half of the shack, the part that’s closed off by the curtain, and returns a moment later with three white cans of something in their arms.

“Power Pup, staple of the Zones since the first ka-boom,” they say nonchalantly, dropping back down to sit cross-legged on the floor, the wheels of their skates scraping across the wooden boards. They peel off their fingerless gloves, turning them inside out and leaving them on the floorboards. “The poor man’s maize. Here ya go, killjoys, eat up.”

The two of them just stare for a moment, and then Mikey blurts out, sounding absolutely horrified, “You eat  _ dog food _ ?”

“’S better than not eating anything at all, kid, your choice,” says Show Pony, and pops open the lid with a scraping sound of metal on metal. The label is plain and white, with Better Living’s insignia imprinted on the paper.

Mikey makes an exaggerated gagging noise, but he reaches tentatively for another one of the cans anyway. The dog food is wet and makes horrible squelching noises when he pokes it with the tip of one finger. “Gross,” he mutters, looking utterly disgusted, and cleans off his finger on the hem of his dusty shirt.

Gerard copies the way Show Pony is digging the contents of the can out with their fingers. He decides to swallow at least a couple of bites of the food before making a decision on the quality, just to be polite. Mikey has refused to try more than one bite of the canned dog food no matter how much Show Pony promises it’s safe to eat—“An’ more nutritious than most other food you’re likely to encounter out here,” Show Pony adds, chewing.

The dog food doesn’t taste like anything at first, but after the first bite the strong meaty flavor hits his tongue and he has to make an effort not to wince. There’s a little gelatinous fluid around the rim of the can, and the rest of the food is full of chunks of something chewy and unidentifiable. It tastes like salt. It tastes exactly like what he thinks dog food is supposed to taste like.

The first bite goes down easily enough. After the second mouthful, his stomach clenches painfully, and he gasps as he bends over, hugging his knees to his chest against a dizzying lurch of nausea. He grits his teeth together and tries desperately not to throw up all over the floor. His head spins sickeningly and his skin is suddenly burning.

Spots dance sideways across his vision, fuzzy and colorful; Mikey grabs onto his shoulders, terrified, his eyes huge behind the frames of his glasses. “G—um—”

Show Pony just gives them both a sympathetic look. “You might hafta wait a bit longer for your stomach to settle down,” they say reassuringly. “Probably just a combination of the sun an’ the radiation an’ the shock, y’know? I’ve seen it all the time, kid, dontcha worry.”

Gerard doesn’t want to risk feeling even worse, so the meal is over pretty quickly after that. He drinks some more of Show Pony’s water—Show Pony cautions him not to drink too much on an empty stomach, but it’s difficult to listen when his mouth still feels arid and swollen—and huddles next to Mikey on the rough gray blanket, still shivering.

The promised weather sirens go off then, loud and wailing, and both of them startle, Mikey grabbing for Gerard’s arm again with those same wide eyes.

Show Pony chuckles. “Dontcha worry, killjoys, ’s just routine business. Special warning for all us crawling things. Gotta stay inside an’ undercover while it’s raining unless you want ghosts in your lungs.”

Mikey looks nervous. “I—don’t,” he says, and swallows. Gerard hugs him clumsily; he’s still relearning how to comfort his brother.

Neither of them knew about the potential of even the weather being harmful—acid rain, Show Pony explains, from the pollution that the city spews out into the desert. They learned in Battery City that acid rain could burn your skin.

Show Pony just shakes their head in sympathy when Gerard relays this information. “It ain’t that bad, kid,” they say, clapping their hands together, “’s just the toxic rainfall, ’s not as quick as the radiation. Rain won’t kill you instantly, but it’ll poison the air that gets into your throat and your chest and it’ll make you sick. You’ll cough and choke till you’ll  _ want _ to stop breathing.”

“And that’s  _ better _ than the radiation?” Gerard complains, shifting his feet restlessly. Even if acid rain can’t make the flesh melt right off his bones, it still doesn’t sound like the sort of thing he’d want to deal with.

“Radiation’s what’ll kill you,” Show Pony says. “Out by the end of the Z’s, you’re gonna need some proper zone-suits, so you don’t get sick. ’S not as bad as it used to be—back a coupla decades ago, the whole fuckin’ desert was fulla the stuff. You had kids with extra fingers, neon eyes, alla that weird shit. Everything was just sick.”

Gerard considers this. He thinks about the irradiated jackrabbit with its poisonous sick-green eyes, the lizards with their unnatural, twitchy legs. He thinks about a topographical data map of the desert with tag-boxes. “How bad is it out—out here?” he asks tentatively.

“First coupla Zones, ’s all jazzy. ’S just past Z-5 when you gotta be careful. Till you dust-kids get acquainted with the oh-two levels an’ all that, I’ll see if I can wrangle up some vapor filters from a Pangea party or from my old friend Tommy’s collection, maybe even a coupla rebreathers for the contaminated dust,” says Show Pony, tapping their fingers along the edge of the helmet’s orange-brown visor. “That’ll keep the radioactive dust you’re breathing from coating the inside of your lungs till you’ve gotta desert inside you just like out here. But ’s no rush.”

“That’d probably be good,” says Gerard. His throat still feels like it’s been scraped raw with sandpaper; he thinks he remembers that Show Pony had called it  _ dust mouth _ . He thinks, he should probably eat something. He doesn’t want to risk the nausea and the nightmares.

“Normally you’d only hafta use a rebreather out past Z-5 or so,” Show Pony says. “No harm done by not time-shifting it for a bit, though.”

Mikey mumbles something in vague agreement, then curls into Gerard’s shoulder. Gerard shifts slightly to make room, wrapping one arm carefully around him.

Show Pony finishes their food and licks off their fingers. “I’ll start with the basic double-oh-ones, binary deets, beep-beep out the code. Got it, kids? Start with the basics. An interview of sorts, with no wrong answers. Think of it as a team bonding exercise, capisce? So! Tell me where you two killjoys are from, yeah?”

The two of them exchange a look, and Gerard says hesitantly, “We, uh. You mean like—what Sector? Or—just—”

The “interview” is mostly Show Pony asking questions and the two of them stumbling over the answers, trying to work out what was real and what was propaganda. They explain that they grew up in Battery City (which Show Pony refers to as “the Battery”), that they aren’t headed any particular direction because they don’t know where to go (Show Pony explains that they can lead them to another safe house with supplies), and their personal history (even if Show Pony cautions them strongly against making it public knowledge that they’re related by blood).

“Jack-paz,” says Show Pony, pulling their gloves back on. “Last question, I promise. You runnerdolls got any real names? Anything I should call you? Besides whatever bool-shit they called you back in the Battery. Can’t keep calling you  _ kid _ forever, y’know.”

This is something unanticipated; they look at each other, uncertain. Mikey says, “Um.”

Battery City has a register of names that are  _ approved _ for citizens—they’re all formal and simple, and nicknames aren’t really a thing, except sometimes among family or very close friends, like with the two of them. Most last names are Japanese, generally old family names with heavy loads of history attached.

Gerard suddenly doesn’t want to tell anyone his name, because for some stupid reason he thinks it’ll make Show Pony laugh at him. They’re reinventing themselves now that they’ve left the city. He wants Show Pony to like him, so he says, “Can you, uh, could you take a rain check on that?”

Show Pony does laugh, but it isn’t in a mean way. It feels more like they’re laughing along with him, instead of at him. “Aw, you’ll find something soon enough, sugar,” they say reassuringly. “Killjoys always do.”

“I don’t like that word,” says Mikey, without looking up from the tops of his sneakers. Gerard leans his head against Mikey’s.

The weather sirens go off again, making both of them jump, and Show Pony grins. “Rain’s over then, kids, and ’s time for us to set sail in the flood. Now, we can start heading towards the station, but first I gotta get you dustbabies all properly suited up in your new colors. Should be a little somethin’ in the back that can help us, if my static’s running right.”

Show Pony takes the two of them into the closed-off half of the safe house, where there are sheets nailed over the windows and cardboard boxes stacked against the back wall, labeled with things like “BOOTS” and “MASKS” and “JACKETS”. Show Pony rummages in the “JACKETS” box, then pulls one out triumphantly. It’s bright red-orange leather, stiff and flashy, and the word  _ KOBRA _ is stamped in a black stripe running along one sleeve, with a picture of a snake rearing back and showing its two front fangs.

“Here ya go, kiddo,” Show Pony says, and tosses the jacket to Mikey, who catches it apprehensively. Show Pony musses up Mikey’s hair with easy affection. “Now, since that’s a Kobra jacket you got there, you’re gonna be going by the name of  _ Kobra _ , the Zone-crossing serpentine menace, venom-mouthed and sharp-tongued. Less you got any objections, naturally. Sound milkshake, don’t it, though?”

“I mean, I guess it fits,” says—Kobra. He’s looking down at the jacket like he doesn’t recognize the person wearing it.

“Kobra, Kobra Kid,  _ the _ Kobra Kid,” Show Pony says gleefully, spinning around. “A tough name for a tough kid. Leave the ghosts to rot in a pool of acid back in the Battery, how about that, seem snappy enough for ya?”

“I’m—okay with that,” says Kobra.

He looks dazed and overwhelmed, but not unhappy.

Kobra Kid, sometimes  _ the _ Kobra Kid. Show Pony calls him  _ the one and only _ . It doesn’t feel as solemn a moment as it should—the death of Mikey from Battery City and the birth of the Kobra Kid from the Zones—but Show Pony doesn’t seem bothered. They kiss Kobra on the forehead briefly, right between his eyebrows, then turn to his brother.

“Now that your brother’s a shiny little glimmer of a snakebite serpent, you need a suitably poisonous name too,” Show Pony says, setting their hands on their hips firmly. “Show me your fangs, babydoll, gimme that poison. What’ll it be?”

Gerard just hunches his shoulders and shrugs noncommittally. “I don’t know, I can’t really think of anything.”

Show Pony doesn’t push the issue, just digs another jacket out of the “JACKETS” box and throws it to Gerard. It’s bright purple and has a motif of a cat with a lightning bolt running through its arched back, the bones visible from the electric shock. The spiky lettering says  _ ELEKTROKAT _ across the shoulders. Gerard pulls it on uncomfortably; it’s an extra degree of protection from the sand and the sun and the radiation, even if he doesn’t feel like it fits him in the same way Mikey’s— _ Kobra’s _ —does.

The name is going to take some getting used to, he thinks, and feels a sudden rush of bleakness.

Can’t go back can’t go back can’t go back, he reminds himself. Gotta stick it out no matter what. Gotta stick it out because there isn’t another option.

“Names are important,” Show Pony says sympathetically, seeming to realize that they’re both completely lost. “Listen up, killjoys, it’s school time! I’ll tell you whatcha needta get locked down in your skulls.”

Show Pony likes to pride themself on their storytelling abilities. They’re excellent at explanations, even if they do sometimes get sidetracked by retelling fables of personal anecdotes and adventures. They’ll take the culpability on that one; they’re  _ interesting _ . Who could blame them for having a bit of pride?

The two new kids are both so quiet and drawn only to each other. Show Pony would have guessed there was something strong tying them together even if Kobra hadn’t let it slip that they were related; it’s obvious to see that they’re both fiercely protective. They’re both stubborn little fuckers, Show Pony thinks fondly. They’ll fit right in once they adjust to the new environment. They’ll learn to adapt quickly. There isn’t another option.

“How bout we call you  _ Poison _ , then? To fit with the theme,” Show Pony suggests. “Wouldn’t want you to go trotting off into the dustlands as a monika, sugar. Unless you got some objection to the proceedings, that’s right fuckin’ atomic in my pages, slaughtermatic, a real shiny name for a real shiny prettyboy, yeah?”

“That’s—okay,” says Poison. “I dunno what a  _ monika _ is.”

“If you don’t have a name,” Show Pony says. They explain the basic premise behind the tradition of choosing an identity when leaving behind everything from the city, thus taking on the moniker of a  _ killjoy _ .

The people who live in the desert (Show Pony explains) are called  _ zone runners _ or sometimes just  _ runners _ or sometimes  _ zone hoppers _ . Calling someone a killjoy is only applicable if that person was born in Battery City and somehow managed to leave in favor of coming to the Zones. It isn’t a popular term, because it’s somewhat of an insult, and because it comes from the Lobby.

“Now, ’s not like we don’t like the juvie halls—y’know, Lobby-rats—but ’s just, they’re choosing to stay in the Battery,” Show Pony says, shrugging; it can’t always be helped. “Not everyone’s got that boom-boom-pow that makes ’em a killjoy, ya know?”

There are differences in Lobby slang and Zone slang. People from the Lobby say  _ vamps _ while people from the Zones say  _ dracs _ ; people from the Lobby say the  _ Stacks _ while people from the Zones say the  _ Battery _ ; people from the Lobby say  _ rayguns _ while people from the Zones say  _ blasters _ or, if they’re within the first few miles of the desert,  _ zappers _ .

Show Pony holds up three fingers. “Three terms they use for us runners, got it? First is  _ zonerats _ —you’ll hear that from folks who don’t wanna cross you but also don’t wanna share your colors.  _ Roaches _ —cause the exxies can’t fumigate us outta our homes. And  _ killjoys _ —if a sand pup calls you a killjoy, that’s no compliment, but ’s just a word.”

The word is almost a derogatory term when applied to newcomers from Battery City, because so many of them often think that they can fit in instantly. The reason behind this is because getting all strung out on Battery City pills is known as  _ joyriding _ .

“You two little sand kittens deserve the literal sense of the word, though,” says Show Pony teasingly, flicking Kobra’s ear. “Poison here is a real partykiller, and Kobra’s a sulky little kid—aw, c’mon, ’m just teasing! Hell, ’s like you never heard of a joke before.”

Kobra and Poison: a suitably venomous deadly duo. Show Pony feels a swell of pride. They never do get tired of helping new kids get all acclimated and shit.

As soon as they’re rested enough to walk, Show Pony brings them to the one and only god of the radio airwaves, the cure-all for static sickness, the voice of the desert, the good old Doctor Death-Defying. If there’s anybody who knows how to deal with new killjoys, it’s the Doctor; he’s been around since the first ka-boom and even long before the bombs started to fall. He took Show Pony under his wing years ago, when he was just starting up his position as a radio DJ in the desert, before everybody and their mother knew his name and his call sign. W-KIL 109, the station frequency that should never have been able to exist. He’s a character, all right—mostly a good one, sometimes a confusing one, always a complicated one. He’s fucking legendary.

Doctor Death-Defying’s current home turf is at the junction of the old green diner and one of the many Dead Pegasus gas stations, in a little wooden shack covered in spray paint and stray boards. The outside is an explosive riot of color and  _ noise _ , decorated with words and logos and sloppy art and the occasional signature. Show Pony’s left their own mark in glittery spray paint (SHOW PONY WAZ HERE—BETTER DONT BELIEVE IT) right next to a mutilated smiling face with one eye X’d out and the mouth overlarge and crooked. The shack looks like a total fucking mess. It looks like home.

Show Pony kicks open the door to the shack and hollers, “Doc, I gotcha some new patients, get off the air and come gimme some attention, I’m  _ starvin’ _ over here, all lonely and alone and shit.”

The Doctor yells back from somewhere within, “Ponyboy, that you?”

“It sure ain’t the Witch looking this good,” Show Pony shouts in response, and herds the two new kids into the lean-to so they can shut the door behind them. “N’less she’s got herself a pair of wheels since I saw her last, that is.”

“More’s the pity, I’ve been getting sick of waiting around here for her to turn up to stuff me in that shopping cart of hers and creak-creak these old bones away.”

“Aw, sugar, don’t you talk like that,” croons Show Pony, and beckons for the two killjoys to follow them into the back.

Poison’s gaze keeps flickering to the art all over the walls—pre-Wars newspaper clippings, flashy paintings, cubist and abstract shit that the Doctor swears up and down is the height of classic culture. Kobra, for his part, is staring wide-eyed at the collections of dusty old records lining the shelves of the entryway, transfixed. Show Pony chuckles internally—Doctor Death-Defying’s got a pretty shiny cache of treasures, it’s common knowledge around the desert; everyone gets star-struck at some point or another.

The station is the main room, and behind that is the more personal side of things—Show Pony’s makeshift closet-slash-storage room, the couch and extra mattresses, the Doc’s super-secret book collection that he won’t admit to having but loves to death. He’d even managed to find a battered old copy of the  _ Iliad _ at some swap meet or other, well-worn and well-read. Pony is adamant that he’d bribed Tommy Chow Mein to sneak back into the Battery to retrieve the book, so it must have been back in Tommy’s days as a juvie hall, before he relocated his business to the Zones. Most of the books were acquired before Show Pony was around, anyway.

The face behind the voice, Doctor Death-Defying himself, is stationed at his usual post, leaning back in his wheelchair with his hands behind his head, staring up at the color-coded map of the Zones on the wall next to the paper calendar and underneath the ragged old American flag. Show Pony never did understand why he was so attached to that old thing, a relic of a country that didn’t really exist anymore.

Probably had something to do with being alive before the world went to shit.

Show Pony can see when the new kids really start to notice everything about the room they’re now in, and their eyes get huge. The gramophone and the turntables are spread across the broadcasting table along with every other mismatched knickknack the two of them have managed to pick up from the Zones over the years—broken vinyl fragments, good- or bad-luck charms, photographs, cassettes and tapes, a couple of VCRs, the old telephone with its curling wire, the boombox that hasn’t worked in ages, a Rubix cube, several nearly empty bottles of wood glue and WD-40, various screws and nails and washers, scraps of wood or leather or metal, a few pairs of UV sunglasses, canned non-perishables, and far too many pieces of fake plastic grass from sushi containers.

Doctor Death-Defying hates the plastic leaves with a passion, but Pony can’t help it; they love the stuff, weird as it is. It’s rare to find packaged food in the Zones these days, now that shipments from inside the Battery have thinned when Better Living came down hard on the juvie hall population inside the city about six months ago, but if you head over to Tommy Chow Mein’s place after hours and your name’s Show Pony, there’s always something special waiting in the back.

The graffiti on the inside of the shack is much more subdued than on the outside—a couple of slogans, another smiley face with the eyes X’d out, and the trademark spider the origins of which no one knows for sure but which some say came directly from the legendary Mike Milligram himself. Then there’s the big colorful map of the Zones—with the helpful You Are Here! sticker that Show Pony had affixed to a thumbtack and stuck in the location of the station—and the tattered flag itself, with all its stars and stripes to garnish the place like the cherry bomb on top of the sundae.

It’s a lot to take in, and that’s not even counting the man of the hour himself.

The Doc finally turns his wheelchair around, appraising the two kids from under his bushy eyebrows, and Show Pony wiggles their fingers at him in warning. Doctor Death-Defying is the very definition of tough love, but that means he can be intimidating to newcomers, especially killjoys—Pony thinks it’s mostly the beard, as well as the complete mastery of the fine art of impenetrable sangfroid. Not many people know that the Doc was once a resident of a city as bright and shiny as the Battery; to the casual observer, he’s desert blood through and through.

“Eventually we’ll have to stop picking up every stray cardboard-box kitten and runaway puppy you find in the sand shadows, Ponyboy,” says the Doc sternly, but he’s already warming to the kids because there’s two of them and they only have each other and that’s something he can relate to, Show Pony can tell. There’s a twinkle in his eye as he rubs thoughtfully at his beard and keeps looking them up and down.

They’re holding hands, huddled close together like they’re worried someone is going to try to separate them, Show Pony notices, and feels a sudden pang of sympathy. Kobra and Poison really do deserve better—much better than the Battery and much better than the Zones. All the lost little kids do. It never gets easier to take, no matter how many get found and then ghosted.

Eventually, the Doc seems to shake himself out of his stupor and turns back to the turntable and microphone and wiring systems. It would look like a dismissal to anyone else, but Show Pony’s clever, and knows the man better than anyone else in the world. “Hey you, the taller one with the old Kobra jacket,” he says, gruff, “you come over here and help me hook up these records so we can send out some sound into the static. Ponyboy, take the other one to get some food, he looks three steps from the mailbox. Kid, you got any special songs you want to send spinning?”

Kobra hastens to move over to the wheelchair, only stumbling a little. His voice is shaky. “I like the, uh, there’s a couple songs and stuff that—it’s like—um. I like, uh, I guess I like The Ramones. Um. I mean, I listened to some of their music back in the city.”

“Records are sorted alphabetically—you’re a city slicker, you can read, go find the rollin’ R’s, wontcha? And don’t say anything to fuck up the waves while I’m talking.”

He flips the switch so that the broadcast is happening real-time, and Kobra scrambles over to the shelves.

Doctor Death-Defying huffs, but he isn’t frowning anymore when he says into the microphone, “Lighten up, dustbabies, this is April sixteenth, 2037, and we’ve got a new slew of tunes comin’ atcha live from the one, the only, radio underground W-KIL 109, situated in the lovely lost land of Nowhere, CA. For all you lonely souls and deadbeat boot-strappers, ammunition armers and dustland rangers, here’s something to get you all revved up and ready to go, piled in the back seat, winding up together on the long-time Getaway Mile. Stay hungry. Stay foolish. I got a special request from a new killjoy comin’ atcha. This is Radio Nowhere, and here is the traffic report . . .”

Show Pony beckons to Poison, who looks up, startled, but follows Pony as they both tiptoe out of the room—well, Poison tiptoes, and Show Pony skates quietly or whatever. The good Doctor is used to Show Pony making as much noise as they want whenever and wherever and however they want, anyway.

It’s one of those occupational hazard things.

Pony takes Poison out into the other room, where Doctor Death-Defying lives when he doesn’t fall asleep at his radio post (which has happened more times than Pony would like), then flops dramatically onto the couch with a sigh.

“You hungry yet? S’been a while since you last ate,” Show Pony offers, rubbing absent-mindedly at the white piece of fabric on their upper right arm; it’s a habit they just can’t seem to break. Poison seems reluctant to accept anything that doesn’t come with an obvious price or some sort of catch behind it, but nods carefully anyway. “I think there’s still some Chinese from breakfast—Tommy came by to bring us some stuff earlier.”

The takeout isn’t the easiest thing to digest on an empty stomach, but Poison still eats almost the entire paper carton of rehydrated noodles and vegetables before remembering that he apparently isn’t supposed to be indebted to anyone, and hastily sets it back down on the woven rug.

Show Pony snorts. “Just don’t forget to chew, dustdoll, and it’ll all be milkshake.”

“Oh man, now I kinda want a milkshake,” says Poison, and grins—quick and small, almost secretive, but Pony catches it anyway, and is absolutely delighted.

Food always makes everything better, they think happily, and nudge the mostly empty takeout box back towards Poison to finish.

They both sit there on the couch together in relative silence for a while, listening to the music emanating from the other half of the room, interspersed with occasional muffled conversation and commentary during the songs or in between, when Doctor Death-Defying does his usual schtick. Show Pony leans back comfortably on the couch for a moment and feels absolutely content with the world.

Poison is obviously checking out the room and trying to act like he isn’t, his eyes flickering from one thing to the next, but Show Pony doesn’t call him on it. The room is pretty shiny—there are a million books crammed onto shelves, and maps and newspaper scraps covering the walls.

It might not exactly be crash queen central, but it’s home.

There are also pictures all over the place. Pony’s favorite is the one of them and the Doc in front of the diner, Show Pony wearing the white crop top with NOISE written across the front and holding up the sign that says  _ W-KIL WILL KILL YOU DEAD & NOT EVEN APOLOGIZE!!! _ and Doctor Death-Defying actually smiling for once, a big, genuine smile.

Show Pony thinks Tommy Chow Mein took that picture, but they can’t remember for sure; they  _ do _ know that Tommy took the picture of Agent Cherri Cola pretending to slice the good Doctor with one of the katanas that are now hanging on the wall above the sofa. Pony’s barely in that photo, just a polka-dotted smudge in the background, holding up a peace sign with one hand and a glass of boxed wine with the other.

Good times, good times. It doesn’t do any good to reminisce about the past, though; it’s the future that can always get bigger and brighter and hotter, like a collapsing star. The explosion before the apocalypse. It’s too bad the world already ended. Or maybe it isn’t; it gets tedious, after a while.

The music is still playing, competing with the steady thump-thump-thump of the battery-powered fan in the corner, moving the hot air sluggishly around. Poison seems fixated on the katanas on the wall, looking up at them almost longingly, and Show Pony anticipates the questions coming from a mile away. “Before you even ask, darlin’, he won’t letcha touch the sharp-sticks, so don’t even bother.”

Poison slumps visibly. “S’cool is all,” he mutters, looking away.

“Believe me, I’ve asked more times’n I can count,” Pony assures him. “If he won’t let me touch ’em, there’s no hope for anyone else, and that’s the real line in the sand. Hey, you and the kid left the rusty old Battery for a reason, yeah? Care to share with the class?”

“I guess, I—uh.” Poison hesitates. “It’s kinda funny, actually, I guess. He got busted for having music, and . . . and I kinda stopped taking any pills. But that was all cause of him that I even got off them!” he hastens to add. “I was fucked up, and Mi—Kobra helped get me out of that shit. S’ the reason I’m here, really.”

“Little brothers,” says Show Pony sagely, nodding as though they know all about it. In truth, the closest thing to family they’ve had is the Doctor and Agent Cherri and Tommy Chow Mein, inconsistently present and disagreeable that they all might be, but that’s probably near enough to the real thing that it counts. Blood is blood is blood, no matter what, or however that saying goes. “Gotta look out for each other.”

“Yeah,” says Poison, chewing on his thumbnail. “I just want him to be okay, and—I don’t wanna lose him. We stick together, no matter what, that’s all I care about. And we couldn’t do that in the city, so we’re gonna try in the Zones. I don’t care about anything else.”

“S’ kinda how it works out here in the dustlands anyhow,” Pony admits. “You find your crew and keep ’em close. Watch each other’s backs. We’re not heroes or martyrs, just solid ghosts tryna stay breathing for a bit longer. There’s a legend in the Lobby—back in the Battery, ya know—that the rats’re gonna save the world. We ain’t about that kinda shit, we just wanna keep our family alive till the Witch gets our bones, till the Battery runs outta juice and sets us all free.”

Poison nods. “I don’t care what happens as long as I’m with my brother,” he says. His voice is still a little hoarse from dehydration. “We don’t have anybody else.”

“Hey, sugar, that’s a whole helping of incorrect,” Show Pony says, and bumps their shoulder against Poison’s. “You got me now, dontcha?”

“I mean I guess so,” says Poison, looking surprised. “I wouldn’t want anybody from—from the city to bother you.”

Pony waves a hand. “Dontcha fret too much, the pigs don’t usually come looking for desert blood, and if they do, I got a zapper with enough juice to send ’em squealing back home to the Battery. Dracs don’t mess with us if we don’t mess with them, and that extends to you an’ your brother.”

As if summoned, Kobra’s head pops around the corner. “The Doctor wants to know if any of you have any requests—we’re taking requests from listeners, and you guys are listening, I guess. Also he wants to know if you’ve set anything on fire yet.”

“Tell the good Doctor he’s confusing me with his other pocket-sized firecracker. Poison mostly just wants to mess with the katanas,” says Show Pony gleefully, and Poison shoots them a look of deep betrayal.

Kobra smiles with just the corner of his mouth, exactly like his brother does, and looks over at Poison. “The swords are pretty awesome. G—uh, Poison. Any requests?”

Poison kicks out his legs along the couch. “Uh, play something that sounds cool, I guess. I don’t fucking know, just ask for whatever you want and say I wanted it, I don’t know anything about music, that’s always been your thing.”

“Get him to put on Stevie Nicks and I’ll love you forever,” Show Pony yells, loud enough that the Doc can probably hear them even through the wall.

Sure enough, he shouts back almost immediately, “Kid, tell Ponyboy to shut their trap about Fleetwood Mac and I’ll let you pick the next six spinners.”

“You were gonna do that anyway,” Kobra calls over his shoulder, and smiles at Poison another time, quick and barely there, before he vanishes again. Show Pony slumps down even further and folds their arms across their chest.

Poison starts giggling, then claps a hand over his mouth almost apologetically, until Show Pony sighs and gives in and starts laughing too. And then they’re both cracking up, shooting each other looks through the hilarity, curled up on the couch and just laughing their heads off together.

It feels good.

They both hang out there on the couch and just listen to the music together for a while. Poison looks up eventually; he’s been chewing restlessly on his thumbnail for the past several minutes and pretending he’s not. “Um, is there—uh. Is there a bathroom around here?”

Show Pony can tell he’s expecting them to laugh at him or just refuse entirely; they feel an instant pang of sympathy. The Battery isn’t kind to kids, especially not if you’ve got any sort of heart. “Just head out the back right here into the space behind the diner, there ain’t any running water in this area yet, but there’s a coupla outhouses, an’ I got some isopropyl for ya to scrub your hands with out there, bass boosted.”

“Thanks,” says Poison, looking relieved, and scrambles up off the couch. He comes back a few minutes later, frowning. “There’s a lot of cars and shit out there. D’you know how to drive ’em?”

“Course I do,” Pony says. “The cycles too, though I like to stick with the van.”

Poison contemplates this. He’s biting his fingernails again. “There weren’t cars or anything in the city. Not unless you needed to travel, like the Director or someone important. They said it was more efficient to take the bus.”

“Probably is,” Show Pony admits. “We’re all fucked when we run outta juice from the Dead Pegs, sugar. The day the wheels stop spinning is the day the fanged fuckers send us all to the pixels at the end of the arcade. Luck be with us, it won’t be for a while yet. World’s already ended once in this lifetime. Babydoll, quit bitin’ your own hand off.”

Poison takes his fingers out of his mouth, flushing. “Sorry. I—sorry.”

“S’ okay,” Pony says, patting the cushion next to them. “Settle down an’ we can just listen to the music for a coupla tracks.”

It takes several minutes for Poison to get comfortable, shifting around and furrowing his brow like he can’t stop thinking about everything. There are so many new things for the new kids to experience, Show Pony thinks, and feels a thrill of anticipation. They can go visit the Nest and see Birdie and the kids; they can go to the Hyper Thrust and get their first real taste of fucking atomic music; they can learn how to drive and fire a zapper and sweet-talk their way into anything; they can mess up their hair and clothes and everything else. It’s gonna be so fucking shiny.

Poison finally has his eyes closed, almost asleep on the ripped old cushions, nestled half-underneath the knotted afghan; Pony carefully adjusts the blanket so that his legs are completely covered.

Show Pony has nearly dozed off as well when Kobra comes back into the room and curls up on the couch next to Poison, throwing an arm over his waist and snuggling close with easy familiarity. Poison mumbles something and presses closer to his brother.

They’re gonna be just fine, Show Pony thinks, then smiles and shuts their eyes again as the Doc finishes up the broadcast.

“All right, tumbleweeds, the wavelengths are running short and the static is itching for its next turn at the wheel. It’s time for one last song—a personal favorite of mine, some good old seventies jam, soft and sweet and slow. Maybe you could find a lover or a friend or a brother and hold them tight a little longer tonight, for new time’s sake, for the future that’ll belong to every scared little kid shaking so bad they can barely lift their head. For now, do me a favor and sit back and relax and just enjoy the music, and watch out for ghouls and goblins tonight, okay? Watch out for one special ghoul in particular, if you’re picking up what I’m putting down. Again, today is April sixteenth, 2037. This is Doctor Death-Defying, still living up to his name, signing off.”

It's about the third day since meeting Show Pony when the excitement of the new environment and new vocabulary and new music comes crashing down into a complete mess. It starts when there isn’t any drinking water that morning; Pony needs to head over to the Nest to get their storages refilled, but they’ve been a bit preoccupied lately, and it’s not the sort of trip they like to take alone, since dracs have been upping their patrols around the Nest lately. Kobra grumps and whines when Show Pony gives the two of them concentrated juice packets instead. “It isn’t  _ fair _ that we don’t have any water or anything,” he complains, glaring at the juice like it’s offended him personally.

“Grow up,” Poison snaps, suddenly out of patience, “none of this is fair, but we can’t go back and I’m sick of listening to you moaning about everything all the time, so just shut  _ up _ .”

“ _ You _ shut up,” Kobra retorts, and it’s only Show Pony’s stepping in that stops the argument from developing into a full-on shouting match.

“Hey, hey, s’ okay,” Show Pony says soothingly, trying to think of an alternative to a full trip out to the Nest, “we can head over to Tommy Chow Mein’s after breakfast. I needta buy another needle for the Doc anyway. Great thing bout Tommy, he always has potable water stores for a good price.” It might not be the best quality, they don’t say, since it usually comes from the Battery, but it’s reliable.

“Can we get other stuff too? I want a freaking toothbrush,” Kobra complains, slumping in his seat. He hasn’t been able to brush his teeth in four whole days, and his mouth tastes like something died in it.

Show Pony snickers. “You got any spare c’s on ya? Tommy only accepts cold hard carbon, Kid.”

“That’s not fair,” Kobra whines.

“That’s business,” Show Pony corrects him, not unkindly. “But if you want it so bad, I’ll getcha a toothbrush. Wanna hairbrush too, maybe tryta tame those unruly tumbleweeds on your head?”

“I want new shoes,” Poison interjects, before Kobra can answer. “Mine are too small.”

Kobra adds quickly, “And I want clothes that actually  _ fit _ instead of being way too big or whatever. Also it’s really hot in these clothes, and I want sunglasses because the sun makes my eyes hurt.”

Show Pony sighs. New killjoys are such troublemakers; it’s almost a shame that they wouldn’t change it for the world and more. “I’ll lend you the carbons to buy some double-oh-one goods, kids, s’long as you both get outta my sight for the rest of the morning.”

It’s a testament to  _ something _ that the two of them finish the juice packets without complaining, and that Show Pony doesn’t see hide nor hair of either of them for a few blessedly uninterrupted hours until the sun is at its highest point overhead and Show Pony starts rummaging through their stashes to find something suitable to wear.

Tommy Chow Mein’s store is far enough away from the diner and the broadcasting shack that Show Pony takes the two of them out through the back of the diner into the dusty area there, where the vehicles are kept. Show Pony might prefer their skates for shorter trips, and Doctor Death-Defying can’t really travel long distances in his wheelchair, but occasionally the need arises for a lengthier vacation away from home. When times like that come up, there are always the cars.

There are a few motorcycles as well, but Show Pony makes no secret of the fact that they detest the cycles, and it isn’t like the Doctor is going to commandeer a two-wheeler. “We can take the van,” Show Pony says, thumping their fist against the dented white metal. They’re wearing the crop top that says NOISE across the front, their white leather gloves, and a bright blue leather skirt that looks far too short and tight to fit any form of city regulation. That’s probably the point. “Hop on in, killjoys, we’re goin’ shopping.”

It isn’t that long of a drive once they’re in the van, but Poison takes it upon himself to be as much of a nuisance as possible. He asks endless questions about everything from the reason behind the desert being a desert (“I thought nuclear bombs were supposed to make everything super cold, why didn’t  _ that _ happen?”) to the strange deformed trees (“What the hell  _ are _ those things?”).

“Oh those?” Show Pony frowns. “Ugly sons of bitches, that’s what they are. Joshua trees, some call ’em. Old prickly darlings, that works too. Better to hug than a cactus, that’s for sure. This place used to be some sort of preserve or some hokey shit like that, way before the mouse bombs squeaked us all outta the labyrinth. Can’t really do much about it anyhow, not anymore. Kinda difficult to protect the desert when we still gotta save our own skins, bass boosted.”

“It ain’t easy being green,” Poison mutters, almost automatic. It feels like a reference that should be understood; it isn’t.

Show Pony just huffs a laugh. “Jack-paz, sugar. That’s the jazz I’m lookin’ for.”

“What’s  _ jazz _ ?”

“Type of music,” Kobra pipes up before Show Pony can tackle that particular question. “I could probably show you once we get back to the diner. Doctor D’s got a million records, basically everything.”

“’Cept Stevie Nicks,” Show Pony says lightly, “but that’s just in the p-files, obviously. Just between you killjoys an’ me. You think Joshua trees’re weird, you shoulda seen summa the shit that burst outta the ground after the first bombs—all sorts of weird shit, radioactive leaves and forests growin’ and glowin’ green an’ yellow from the poisoning. Killed off most of the real forests, now we’re stuck with those fuckugly spike-buckets and a buncha prickly Christmas trees.”

“Christmas trees?” Poison says, confused.

Show Pony sighs. “Cacti,” they say. “Big spiky green things.”

“I know what a cactus is,” Poison grumbles, then adds like it’s an afterthought, “asshole.” Kobra giggles.

Tommy Chow Mein is currently located in the old Paradise Motel, the single-story old building that’s been raided by dracs so many times that there’s a junk pile of Battery tech in the back full of scraps that don’t fit in the dented old trash cans out front. Drac weaponry is coveted, because it’s solar-powered instead of battery-powered; a single Individual—a drac’s nightmare-white blaster—could last a lifetime without the owner having to worry about replenishing the battery pack so frequently.

There are a couple of teenagers sitting on the metal awning of the building, swinging their legs and sharing cans of soda, leaning back against the boxy metal A/C units. They all more or less recognize the van; one of them lifts a hand in greeting. His hair is spiked up into a mohawk, and his face is studded with piercings. “Hey, Pony. New undergrads?”

“New recruits lookin’ to max out the high score,” Show Pony corrects, setting one hand between Kobra’s shoulder blades and the other on Poison’s arm. “Just out for the double-oh-ones, today.”

“Shiny,” the guy says, and takes another swig of his soda.

The sign used to be illuminated to spell out MOTEL, but most of the bulbs have long since burnt out. M _ _ E _, it says instead; the gaudy vintage arrow points daringly at the ripped screen door that leads inside. There are several faded and tattered prayer flags strung up on the porch, flapping slightly in the faint breeze. A few of the windows are broken, most of them left in disrepair. Various flyers and papers are pinned to the front of the building, advertising shows and concerts and swap meets and parties and fight clubs and races and everything in between. The ground in front of the motel is packed clay, littered with random pieces of junk; Kobra kicks aside an empty cardboard pizza box as he heads towards the screen door.

Poison doesn’t know what he was expecting inside, but it isn’t what he sees when he lets the screen door bang shut behind him. The store is crowded but not cluttered—there are shelves lined with Better Living products, bins of clothes and masks and sunglasses, sections devoted to ammunition and battery packs or blue plastic Mousekat merch or endless sets of shoelaces or cans of spray paint. His fingers itch; he doesn’t know what to look at first.

“Show Pony, if I live and breathe. Never thought you’d roll back in here if you could help it,” someone says, and Poison startles so badly he almost knocks over a bookcase full of what appear to be hand-printed magazines.

Show Pony tilts one hip cockily. “I gotcha some new customers, Tommy-gun, don’t give me that look! We’re lookin’ for some basic bread-and-water, just to get these undergrads properly suited up.”

Tommy Chow Mein doesn’t come out from behind the register, but he leans forwards and fixes Pony with a shrewd look. There’s a wicker basket on the counter next to him, filled with plastic bottle caps that have been repurposed into pins. “New kids, huh? Sure they don’t need something extra-special, maybe a bit of extra juice to spice up the graduation—could getcha some bath salts, coupla limes—”

“Pass, deadhead,” Pony says dryly. “Got any dental supplies?”

“I got everything you need and even more than you don’t. Toothbrush? Twenty c’s. For thirty, I’ll throw in some toothpaste as well.”

“Twenty even,” says Pony.

“Twenty-five, and you get the Doc to run another advertisement.”

“Twenty plus the publicity,” Show Pony counters, and Poison tunes out of the conversation. He wanders down one of the aisles—a sign handwritten in black Sharpie proclaims that this is the PUP – SNACKS – SODA aisle. The A/C whines in the background, steady and unrelenting.

The nearest shelf is stocked with cans of Power Pup; Poison makes a face, remembering the salty, meaty taste. The next shelf contains wire trays stuffed full of colorful plastic bags. Those must be the snacks, he thinks. The packaging is the same style as the dehydrated fruit or protein pieces they’d had back in Battery City, but the colors make all the difference.

Poison rummages through the cooler of soft drinks, captivated by the flashy colors and confusing brand names—Hypno High, Neptune Pop, Dr. Phizzle’s Jump Juice, 2-Pop—and considers asking how Tommy Chow Mein managed to get the ice inside the cooler to stay frozen. There must be some sort of generator, to power the A/C on the roof, and the hanging electric lights on the walls.

Kobra grabs a can of 2-Pop; there’s condensation dripping from the outside of the soda. He licks the water droplets off his fingers. “Weird.”

“You’ve had soda before, dumbass,” Poison says. The soda back in Battery City was clear and tasteless, infused with supplements.

Show Pony has managed to find a toothbrush for Kobra and another for Poison, as well as a pair of sunglasses. They tap their fingernails against the wood of the counter and turn to look over at Poison. “Hey, sugar, you want anything for yourself?”

Poison shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe better clothes?”

“I got those at popsicle central, dontcha worry bout that,” Show Pony assures him. “Anything else? Snacks, soda, somethin’ from the vending machine outside?”

“Um.” Poison glances over at the can of soda that Kobra’s still holding loosely. “I guess maybe soda?”

“Sure thing,” says Show Pony. “Grab whatever you want and take it up to Tommy. I gotcha covered for today.”

The vending machine is the same model as the ones situated on every other street corner in the city—white metal with the Better Living Industries smiling logo on the front. It doesn’t dispense protein cubes or plastic toys or extra headphones, though—the buttons say things like H2O and AMMO and BATTERIES. There are a few plastic lawn chairs sitting along the wall of the building.

Kobra looks up at the sign with its arrow, then back down at the can of soda in his hand. He brushes condensation and flecks of grit and sand off the top, then pops the tab. A moment later, he makes a face. “It’s flat!”

“Carbonation’s a thing of the past,” says Show Pony sagely. “This ain’t the Battery, Kid.”

“I know,” Poison says, when it becomes obvious that Kobra isn’t going to respond. Show Pony gives them both a curious look, then shrugs it off and starts loading their haul into the van.

Besides the soft drinks, toothbrushes, and Kobra’s sunglasses, Show Pony has acquired several bottles of rubbing alcohol (“Isopropyl, for cleaning stuff if a clap goes all Floridian,” they say), a few cardboard boxes of basic batteries (apparently “for the generator the good Doctor keeps sayin’ he’ll get set up”), and battery packs for weapons (“Gun salt,” says Show Pony, “wouldn’t do to have insufficient seasonings, would it?”).

Kobra takes another drink from the can of 2-Pop. His expression doesn’t change this time, but he leans against Poison’s shoulder. “Thanks for the toothbrushes and stuff,” Poison says.

“Don’t worry bout it,” Show Pony says easily, waving one gloved hand. “I’d do the same for any of you killjoys.”

They’re all gathered in the main room eating dinner a couple of days after the toothbrush incident, with Kobra and Poison on the couch and Show Pony cross-legged on the floor, when someone knocks on the door of the shack, sharp and demanding.

Poison tenses up instantly, reaching instinctively for Kobra and looking for something to use as a weapon. No one else seems bothered—Show Pony is just beaming like they’ve been told the best evil news of their life, so whatever it is probably can’t be  _ that _ bad.

Doctor Death-Defying calls out gruffly, “Unless you’ve got somethin’ worthwhile, leave an old man to his beauty rest and kindly fuck off, sweetheart.”

In response, the door is kicked open with force, but the person who stomps into the room is obviously not from the Battery, and therefore probably not sent to murder them all in their sleep.

It’s difficult to tell at first, though—he’s dressed like a zonerunner, colorful and dusty, with dirty black hair down to his shoulders and a scowl on his face. There’s a navy-blue bandana knotted around his neck, and he’s wearing a green vest over a yellow shirt so covered in sand it looks almost gray. He glares right at the Doctor, waiting.

Doctor Death-Defying doesn’t even look up from his half-empty can of Power Pup. “You’re tracking mud all over the carpet, ghoulboy, sure hope you don’t mind dressing up in a maid’s outfit and getting on your knees later to clean it up.”

Show Pony’s grin gets even impossibly wider. “Aw, Doc, we gotta talk about these things before inviting strangers into our business,” they croon, and wink at the newcomer. The person in question doesn’t stop scowling, just gestures at Pony with his middle finger, then folds his arms and glares at the room in general.

“That ain’t a stranger,” says Doctor Death-Defying grumpily, “although sometimes I wish he was. Thought I’d be hearing from you soon enough, after that shout-out on the airwaves. How much shit did you catch for that one?”

“I should change my fucking name, that’s how much. You know you can just say you need me to blow some shit up instead of being a cryptic motherfucker and dropping hints until Birdie drags my ass all the way from southside six to the station just in  _ case _ . You’d think the fucking world was ending. Couple decades too late to take advantage of that one, asshole.” He waves a hand at Kobra and Poison, who are still huddled on the couch. “When did you pick up a coupla fuckin’ killjoy brats? Planning on stealing undergrads straight from their mother’s tits now, Pony?”

Poison glares at him at that comment, offended; he thinks he’s most likely older than this person, and most definitely taller, even without the heavy-soled boots the newcomer is wearing.

“Nah, just some stragglers who needed a place to stay for a while or two,” says Show Pony easily. “This is Kobra in the Kobra jacket, and the grumpy one over there is Poison. I don’t know if they bite, but I wouldn’t chance it. Killjoys, this is Fun Ghoul, celebrated menace of the desert and demolition duster extraordinaire.”

“This is someone who needs to change his name to something that the immortal Doctor will stop publicly mocking,” says Fun Ghoul sharply. He sweeps his eyes over Kobra and Poison, apparently deems them unworthy of his attention, and turns back to Show Pony. “So what’s the 411, huh, did you actually need me for somethin’ this time?”

“You ain’t fun and you ain’t a ghoul, so maybe you  _ should _ switch it up,” says Show Pony, beaming again like the sun’s finally stopped burning off their skin. “What, dontcha believe I just wanted to see that pretty face of yours?”

“Maybe I would if your friendly medicinal professional hadn’t told me to drive sidestreet before I even set foot in the door.”

“The Doc got a tip-off about some dracs headed our way soon, over by three northside—nothing serious, just a routine trouble-seeking looking to go all polka-dotty. We wanted to make sure they would get a present when they arrived. Somethin’ nice and pretty, all wrapped up—bit short on wrapping paper these days, though, so if the wires’ll tick-tick-tock for you like usual then I think we’re still seeing eye-to-eye, Ghoulie. And if we’re not, I got some platform heels in the back I saved especially for ya.”

Fun Ghoul raises his middle finger easily in Show Pony’s direction, but there’s a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth, and that’s when Poison notices the scar stretching from the right corner of his lips up across his cheek, like someone took a knife and slit the skin right open, mouth to ear.

Something about the scar is absolutely captivating. Probably it’s because there’s a meaning behind it. Poison can’t stop staring. Fun Ghoul catches the stare, and lifts his chin defiantly, as though daring Poison to comment; Poison looks away, flushing.

It seems like the sort of thing you have to earn the story behind, just like it had been with Baby’s scars, back in the city an aeon ago.

“Fuck off,” Fun Ghoul mutters, but he shrugs one shoulder noncommittally. “I’ll see what I can do. Send Newsie the coords, will ya? I borrowed a motorcycle from Starboy down at the mechanic’s, should have enough to gun her for the underground if I hurry. Newsie’ll make sure it comes through, they’ve got that old junker crab-box radio all fixed up now, and Chimp’ll get it topside, since they both know I won’t be rendezvousing with them outta the sun.”

“Milkshake,” says Show Pony, and winks. “I’ll walk you out then, babydoll, since I’m a motherfucking gentleman.”

Poison looks over at Doctor Death-Defying once the other two have left. “Do you—? You, uh, you trust this guy?”

“Ghoul’s a bit abrasive, but so’s the desert and so’s the Witch and that’s all we got covering our asses most days,” says Doctor Death-Defying, shifting in his chair. “Sure he can be a crazy son of a bitch, but we all have our moments. I wouldn’t trust the kid not to slit my throat in the night, but I’d trust him to have my back, if that drives smooth. He’s the best demo expert in the Zones, I wouldn’t lie bout that.”

“He seems like kind of a dick,” Kobra says, and Poison chokes on a laugh.

It feels so terribly weird, to be laughing again, even though nothing was even that funny. It’s just—it’s just that—they’re alive, and they’re together, that’s all. Hilarity bubbles out helplessly.

“You do what you gotta do to stay alive,” says Doctor Death-Defying, gruff. Poison wonders, suddenly, how he’d earned  _ his _ name. He doesn’t look that old, but maybe it’s deceptive somehow. “Ghoul’s got a tight grip on his gun and a hand to the Witch, so he’s set for now, but all it takes is one loose wire and he’ll be sky-high, partying in the clouds with all the freebirds up there. The desert is our home, but that don’t mean it’s a kind place to sleep at night, children.”

Kobra and Poison are asking questions about the mysterious  _ Witch _ when Pony comes back, and promptly lights up with eagerness at the chance to tell more stories.

Show Pony tells the two of them a lot more about the elusive Phoenix Witch who roams through the Zones with a shopping cart for picking up lost souls, about the legends surrounding her, about how it’s rumored that she comes to collect the spirits of the dead to help them cross over a little more easily.

“Sounds like DESTROYA,” says Poison, chewing on his fingernails and thinking about a handful of dead batteries piled against a wall, washed in neon green light.

Show Pony snorts loudly. “That’s some droid shit, that is. DESTROYA’s bout as real as exxies are human. Another polka-dotty story boutta living metal machine god that’ll come back someday and blast the Battery right open. Droids got some funky mumbo-jumbo going on down there in the Lobby, ya know? Same sorta folks who think us rats’ll come and take the world by storm. Want us to be heroes, that kinda thing.”

“So DESTROYA’s a myth,” Kobra says slowly. Pony shrugs.

“Can’t say either answer, Kid, I never saw any proof one way or another. Not like you can just hotwire a god, y’know, and besides, droids can’t leave the Battery anyway cause of the electric current. They’d be nothing but spare parts soon as they set foot in the desert, but sometimes s’all you got—to keep hoping something’ll come and save you. Now, some of the shit certain crazy dustheads’ll spew bout the Witch is just as side-wavey as anything coming from the droids, so you gotta keep your mask on when dealing with summa those screwbrains, but s’a lotta good stories too.”

“She’s real, though?”

“Kid, she’s as real as you or me,” Show Pony says. “I’ve seen her, the Doc’s seen her although he wouldn’t admit it—she’ll come for you too, s’long as you’re out here under the sun when you get ghosted. She’ll come and find you and take your soul away all folded up in her shopping cart. Helps if you’ve got your mask on, though.”

“I don’t have a mask,” Poison points out. It isn’t a lie, but it suddenly feels like one. The words don’t taste right.

“Don’t get yourself ghosted, then, sugar! I’ll get you kids your masks soon enough, dontcha worry. Besides, there are always those fables,” Pony continues, snapping their fingers thoughtfully, “that she can choose to cut the string and take you away, snip-snip, or tie a knot and letcha wake back up—refill your lungs, re-flood your heart, burn you back to life. Dying ain’t the end of things, not always. She protects, that’s what she does. She watches over her children.”

Show Pony’s voice is theatrical and overdramatic, but there’s an undercurrent of seriousness to the words. Poison shudders even without meaning to.

“Even if we’re from the city,” says Kobra skeptically, raising his eyebrows.

Pony winks at him. “She always cares for her babies, Kid, no matter where you happen to hail from.”

“What about you?” asks Poison, curious, uneasiness all but forgotten. “Were you born in the desert?”

“In a manner of speaking, sure I was,” says Show Pony vaguely, rubbing their hand over their armband. “Now, you two got any more burning questions before we finish up dinner? All this talk of the Witch is makin’ me awful hungry.”

_ You ran from the Battery, _ she says, musing, thoughtful.  _ You ran from the neat orderly cubicles, you ran from the white-suited vampires, you ran from the doctors and pills and surgeries. It’s never as exciting as it is in the comic books, is it? This is real life, motorbaby, you don’t get to stop running even if you want to _ .

I don’t wanna run, I just want to be left alone, Poison thinks. It probably isn’t the right response, but it’s difficult to care.

She lets out a wheezy chuckle.  _ You will have some respite, I can promise you that. You will find family, love, affection _ .

Poison thinks, I already have that; thinks, I don’t need anything else.

Family. Love. Affection.  _ KOBRA _ .

_ Those things aren’t synonymous _ , she says. The words sound regretful, almost chastising.  _ I don’t like your future. Not this one _ .

Poison frowns. I have more than one?

She turns her mask towards him; he thinks she might be smiling. He thinks about something Show Pony had said, about the Phoenix Witch. The rumor is that if you catch her off guard and manage to take off her mask, she won’t have a face. Or the mask won’t come off because the mask is her face.

Too many faces, Poison thinks. It’s difficult to figure out which is the real one. Too many faces and not enough mirrors.

_ Don’t worry _ , she says, or doesn’t say, or maybe he’s just imagining things.  _ Killjoys never die, not on my watch _ .

“Not everyone has the right chance to settle down in one spot like the Doc here,” Show Pony explains, “so s’best to keep moving. Get yourself some wheels, and a good hearty helping of get up and go.”

They’re going to be moving into the diner. It’s only next door, but it feels like they’re being kicked out, no matter how many times Show Pony reassures them that it just makes more sense. “Loving but strict, that’s my motto,” Pony says, messing up Kobra’s hair. “Time to drift, kids.”

The diner used to be mint green at one point, but the outside paint has long since faded. The neon sign on the roof only works about half the time, even when plugged into a generator; most of the bulbs are burnt out and one of the letters, the N, has fallen from its perch on the metal roof to lie uselessly in the dust. The remaining image spells out D I _ E _, which Show Pony says is thematically appropriate.

The front glass is decorated with window clings that advertise long-forgotten lunch specials and half-priced bargains, the plastic stiff and peeling. The whole place smells like gasoline—it’s connected to the Dead Pegasus station with its double gas pumps and shitty empty convenience store, so it can’t really be helped. The glass door sticks when Show Pony tries to push it open; Poison half-expects the welcoming chime of an electronic bell to accompany their entrance when the door is finally shoved wide.

This isn’t the city, he reminds himself. Loving but strict. Can’t go back can’t go back can’t go back.

“S’a good place to start out,” Show Pony says, setting their hands on their hips and swiveling around on their skates. “If you plan to travel, s’a different story, but I gotcha some goods. And besides, this is your first time relocating since you ditched the Battery, so—s’big news. Diner’s been empty for a while, so you won’t have to worry bout any pit vipers or anything—still got the juice in the big tanks underneath, so s’no worry.”

Show Pony instructs the two of them to get acquainted with the place, then glides out the door—and there’s that nagging itch of something missing again, when there isn’t the familiar sound of a bell—and then it’s just the two of them.

Poison bites his lower lip. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

There’s a sign on one of the front windows that says  _ WAKE UP … TIME TO DINE _ , but someone—probably Show Pony—has scribbled out most of the letters with black Sharpie so that the sign just says  _ TIME TO DI _ E _ . Kobra raises his eyebrows when he sees it, but he doesn’t comment.

The interior of the diner smells faintly of mold and primarily of dust; Poison’s nose starts running almost immediately. Besides the main room with all its booths and tables and usual long countertop, there’s a kitchen with sinks and dishwashers and ovens, and a room that likely used to be an office, and a bathroom complete with a porcelain sink and a toilet and a cracked mirror. Kobra tries the tap; there isn’t any water.

“It would probably be full of radiation anyway,” Poison mumbles. He thinks they could probably talk to Doctor Death-Defying about getting a generator like the one in the radio station, or the one in Tommy Chow Mein’s store.

The entire building is in various stages of falling apart. The ovens in the kitchen clearly stopped working a long time ago, and most of the empty dishwashers aren’t even in their original places anymore—one of the racks is on its side in the seating area, half-mangled half-melted plastic. Despite the disrepair, the diner overall has got as close to a homey feel as a place probably can these days. There are actual lights with the bulbs still intact, so a generator would bring back the electricity, and the cracked faux-leather booths aren’t horribly uncomfortable. Kobra even finds a couple of plastic food containers in the room-temperature refrigerator that aren’t completely covered in mold or other filth—they’re made from carbon fiber reinforced polymer, Battery City standard issue, so they might even be usable. Not for food, probably, but maybe for things that need to be stored in waterproof containers, like lighters or batteries.

Show Pony returns them, carrying various objects. “All right, killjoys,” Show Pony says, dumping their armful of stuff onto the scuffed countertop and placing their hands on their hips again, “I gotcha some double-oh-ones. You can thank me later.”

Poison is apprehensive about the kind of stuff Show Pony’s decided they need to have in order to live in the desert, but there’s nothing to do but watch as Show Pony holds up each new item and describes its purpose. “These’re the essentials,” Pony says, looking gleeful, and gets to work.

The essentials turn out to be a carton of Power Pup cans (Kobra pulls a face at that, and Show Pony laughs), new shoes (“Real dust-kickers, heavy-duty boots to keep out the sand—you’ll be needing these, so keep ’em on, yeah?”), an assortment of other clothes (“We got shirts, jeans, bandanas, and everything underneath,” is Show Pony’s explanation), two white guns that were apparently printed from the vending machine (“Basic-style zappers, nothin’ fancy, nothin’ special, short battery life—just like you,” Show Pony crows, delighted by the double meaning), a couple of flashlights and extra batteries (“You’re gonna need to bright-light your way once the sun goes down,” Show Pony says, rattling the box of batteries), and two folded body bags with the trademark Better Living smiling face stamped on the front.

“That’s— _ morbid _ ,” says Poison, staring at the body bags, caught between being delighted and being horrified and settling somewhere in the middle. The body bags are white with the eerie smiling logo outlined in black. He tugs at one of the zippers, transfixed.

Show Pony laughs out loud at that. “Nah, sugar, out here you don’t wait till you’re dead to sleep in a body bag. These babies are insulated and relatively clean—s’long as you don’t mind that the previous occupant wasn’t breathing like you are, that is.”

As long as you can get over the fact that the body bags once contained a fucking  _ corpse _ , Poison thinks.

“Drac suits are basically body bags, anyhow,” Show Pony points out. “Might as well use what we can get.”

Body bags are a logical choice to utilize, despite their primary usage; the material is industrial-quality carbon fiber, strong and sturdy. Sometimes the temperature regulators are actually still functional, so you can keep the internal temperature steady at the average human body heat to prevent yourself from freezing to death during the cold desert nights.

Only the best for the dead. Better dying.

The body bags are supposed to be kept at that particular temperature so that the body will decay faster. If the body decays, the likelihood that surviving zonerunners will retrieve it from the aftermath of a firefight lessens.

The dracs know about the desert tradition of sending off to the Phoenix Witch any personal items collected from ghosted friends; the heated body bags are a deliberate cruelty. Using them to sleep in is a way of fighting back.

Kobra picks up one of the things and waves it in Pony’s face emphatically. “This is a BODY BAG,” he says loudly, as though Pony hadn’t noticed that already when they’d first given them out. “A freaking _body_ _bag_ , what the hell, Pony.”

Show Pony just laughs again and shoos the two of them, coaxing them to start finding somewhere to dump their stuff for a while. “C’mon, kids, put an X on the floor an’ make it home.”

They end up settling down in what used to be the kitchen, because it’s the easiest area of the diner to protect what with being the most reinforced, and also the farthest from the main entrance. There’s a back door, the metal rusted all to hell around the edges, but even Show Pony doesn’t have a key, and the lock is solid and forbidding. The lino countertop in the kitchen is almost completely covered in marks and inexplicable stains, pockmarked with chips and dents and scrapes and gouges, but it’s still relatively clean. There’s a thick layer of dust covering everything.

And besides, the kitchen cabinets haven’t entirely rotted off the walls yet. That’s another little added bonus.

Kobra shakes out one of the body bags and spreads it out on the floor. He glances up at Poison, who quirks his mouth to the side. “Yeah, we probably need a broom or something to deal with all this dust and shit.”

“Yeah,” Kobra mutters. He sits down carefully on the body bag and starts to undo the laces on his boots, then stops. “Shit. I forgot.”

Poison shrugs. “C’mon, we gotta find something to use so we can clean up this place a bit, maybe get rid of the worst of the dust and sand and all that crap. A goddamn broom! I used to hate doing chores and shit, remember?”

“Yeah, I fucking do,” Kobra says, ducking his head. “Always made me do ’em.”

“Mom would yell at me every—” He stops dead, eyes wide. He doesn’t know what the protocol is for talking about how things used to be. “Fuck, I didn’t—”

“Whatever,” says Kobra. “I don’t wanna talk about it.” He stands up abruptly, brushing sand off his clothes. “Let’s just go clean the diner so I can go to sleep.”

“Yeah, okay,” Poison relents guiltily, and trails after his brother out into the main room. Show Pony is sitting on top of one of the tables, kicking their skates into the back of the booth with a rhythmic thumping noise.

Kobra grabs one of the bandanas from the pile of stuff—it’s a faded red one—and starts wiping dust off the countertop. He doesn’t make eye contact with either of them; Show Pony raises their eyebrows delicately but doesn’t comment on the obvious dismissal. “I should probably grab the stick shift, killjoys, I got my own numbers to crunch.”

“You’re not staying?” Poison says, disappointed.

“Sorry, sugar, I gotta jet, but I’ll be right around the curve with the Doc, so you can just holler for me if somethin’ goes Costa Rica in here,” Show Pony assures them, and kisses Poison’s cheek before they leave, skating off to go find Doctor Death-Defying for some mysteriously secret business that nobody seems to want to explain.

Kobra sneezes loudly, then looks surprised. He wipes his nose on the sleeve of his shirt with a grimace. “You’re blushing,” he says, and resumes his efforts to conquer the layers of dust everywhere.

Poison flushes even redder. “Shut up,” he mutters, and stomps over to grab another bandana and get to work.

Several hours later, their progress has moved slowly but surely. The two of them have managed to remove the worst of the dust and cobwebs coating every available surface. The stray dishwasher rack is now returned to its original culinary position, their new belongings are stowed safely in the cabinets and drawers in the kitchen, and the food has been relocated to what used to be the office. There’s a desk, half-eaten by insects but with several dusty sheets of blank paper in the top drawer, and a moldering paisley couch that sags when Kobra sits on it.

“Don’t impale yourself on a loose piece of something, idiot, you could get hurt,” Poison says, rifling through the paper. It’s old and yellowing, but it’s something. He can’t see Kobra from where he’s standing at the desk, but he can picture the face Kobra’s making, the one that says he’s being overly protective again. “’M just trying to look out for you, c’mon. You’re all I got.”

“No I’m not. Whatever,” Kobra mumbles, but Poison can hear the springs squeak when he reluctantly stands up. There’s a scraping noise, then a dull thump, then his voice again: “Hey, I found a microwave.”

Poison whirls around eagerly, dropping his handful of old paper. “What?  _ Really? _ Dude, that’s awesome, those things are seriously  _ vintage _ .”

“Yeah.” Kobra shuffles backwards awkwardly, dragging the rusting remains of the microwave out from the pile of junk in the corner. He crouches down on the floor, wrinkling his nose at the dust that manages to be everywhere at once, and carefully opens and closes the plastic door of the microwave. It makes a shrieking, squealing noise, like sandpaper on metal.

“Dude,” Poison whines, “quit it.”

“It’s interesting. Get over it.” Kobra grabs the cord and bends it in his hand, inspecting the frayed patches, prodding at the exposed wires with one finger. Poison yelps and slaps it out of his hand.

“You’re gonna fucking electrocute yourself, dumbass!”

“I’m  _ fine _ ,” Kobra groans, rolling his eyes. He reaches for the cord again, then changes his mind and starts trying to push the microwave onto its side so he can get to the coils on the bottom.

Poison stares at him for a moment, wordless. “Fine,” he finally manages, crossing his arms and turning deliberately back towards the desk, scooping up the stack of brittle yellowed printer paper, “I’ll be out here digging a grave for you, then.” He marches out the door and back into the kitchen, ignoring the waves of amusement radiating off Kobra.

He leaves the paper on the kitchen counter and goes in search of something to draw with, thinking about Kobra. They still have each other, and it’s going to stay that way. There isn’t another option. The two of them will stick together, no matter where they are or what happens to them; Battery City or the Zones. Poison is still just as protective of Kobra as Gerard was of Mikey.

He finally finds a pencil that’s rolled underneath one of the cabinets, covered in dust and cobwebs. It looks like something’s gnawed on it, but it still works; he drags the point carefully across the top of a sheet of paper, testing it. The graphite is soft and gray against the fragile paper.

Pencils, he thinks, frowning. He’s only used them in school before; everything else was written in ink or typed on computers of FlatScreens or other similar devices. Pencils were always considered wasteful.

He doesn’t have a choice anymore. The kids from Battery City are gone. Leave the ghosts behind, Show Pony had said. It’s these new people now, Poison and Kobra, no one else—back to back, the two of them against the world.

“Two options,” says Show Pony, holding up two fingers. “First option, also best option, you start looking for a crew. S’real important to have people you’d trust with your life, an’ s’real useful for new killjoys like yourselves to find someone all weathered and hardtack to share your colors with.”

“What’s the other option?” Poison asks, glancing over at Kobra. The idea of having to deal with someone else isn’t an appealing prospect. Show Pony is nice enough, and Doctor Death-Defying is interesting, albeit slightly off-putting. But adding someone unknown and potentially dangerous to the mix sounds risky and uncomfortable. It’s better if it’s just the two of them, so they know they have each other.

Show Pony hums noncommittally. “Second option’s flying solo. Don’t recommend it, for obvious reasons, but you—”

“Well, we wouldn’t really be alone, would we?” Poison chews on the ragged edge of his fingernail. “There’s you and Doctor D and all.”

“Much as I’d love to agree with you, sugar, D an’ I work alone,” Show Pony says gently. “S’ just how it is. But you two should find someone who knows their way round these tracks, a real skeleton key, someone to show you the ropes.”

Poison scoffs and says, bitter and poisonous, “Right, someone like  _ you _ .”

Show Pony just rolls their eyes. This isn’t the first time they’ve had to deal with clingy newbies. Sometimes you just gotta get pushed out of the nest so you can spread your wings and fly. “We ain’t kicking you out, sugar, cool the carburetors. It had to happen anyway—too much flash-bang round here would draw the dracs right into the station, and where’d we all be then? Ghosted at popsicle central, an’ no help to the rest of the people who need us to stay alive.”

“Yeah,” Poison mutters, looking away. “Fine, whatever.”

Pony snorts. “Jack-paz. So—which’ll it be?”

“Uh—what?”

“The options, babydoll,” says Show Pony, amused. “We got connections, Doc an’ I can hook you up with some bigwig boot-stompers out here in the dustlands, if you want. Coupla safe houses specifically for kids like you two, killjoys just lookin’ to stay alive and stay together for a while—there’s always the Nest, though you’re probably a bit too old for that, or the Loose Wire if you don’t mind heading back to Z-1 for a—”

“No,” Poison interrupts. “I mean, no, I think we’ll just stay here for a while. Just the two of us.”

Show Pony purses their lips. “If the wheels grind smooth, then it’s all milkshake. Now, that’s outta the way, we can get on towards the fun stuff. There’s a Pangea party out in westside five later today, and the Doc’s sending me over to get some goodie bags—you two killjoys fancy tagging along?”

Poison frowns. “A—party?”

“Yeah, sure,” Pony says, laughing, “s’ gonna have streamers and balloons and confetti and all kindsa jazz. Gonna be fuckin’ slaughtermatic.”

Most of the supplies in the Zones come from Battery City, if indirectly—pilfered from dusted dracs, raided from Better Living supply trucks, scavenged from decrepit abandoned buildings throughout the desert. A few types of items are made or sometimes recycled—some clothes, certain types of jewelry or hair accessories or weapons, personal belongings and keepsakes, the occasional edible meal gathered from whatever isn’t still irradiated or otherwise poisonous. Drugs are always homemade; alcohol comes from within the city premade, or the raw materials are taken from supply lines and fermented in old purification plants scattered around. Market and business is conducted through gatherings known as swap meets, which happen on no fixed schedule.

This particular swap meet is located in Zone Five, and it’s sprung up out of nowhere without warning—either you get there or you don’t, and if you don’t, then it’s too bad. It’s the best way to avoid the event being broken up by a swamp of dracs. No one wants to lose customers, in any sense of the word.

But as unpredictable as swap meets can be, they’re the best (and basically only) way to get some trading and bartering done, and to find new treasures that you might not be able to locate anywhere else, not even at Tommy Chow Mein’s Paradise Motel.

Show Pony drags them along to the swap meet, deliberately ignoring their shared apprehension. Neither Poison nor Kobra were expecting to have to pay or exchange for things like food or clothes. The visit to Tommy Chow Mein’s store was bad enough, but this—a crowd of people so obviously different from citizens of Battery City, exchanging money for basic necessities—is a horribly unpleasant shock. That’s one of the worst differences to experience, that things that are considered inherent rights in Battery City are expensive and rare in the Zones. Food isn’t given freely. Clothes aren’t automatically generated. Water is scarce and often contaminated in some way. Living doesn’t come easily the way it’s supposed to in Battery City.

“Blame Mom an’ Dad for that old bullshit,” Show Pony says, although they say it with some fraction of gentleness and patience. “Us zonerats wouldn’ta made it this way if we had the selection of options, I promise you.”

The swap meet is a rag-tag gathering of all sorts of people in brightly colored clothing, laying out all manners of things, from scrap metal and engine parts to hand-woven shirts and carved wooden jewelry—beads strung on colorful bits of twine or wire. “Badluck beads,” Show Pony explains in a whisper, when Poison lingers at that particular collection, “for keeping the Witch on your good side for a while.”

There are people everywhere, bright and colorful and flashy with dyed hair and mismatched clothing and all sorts of decorations and piercings and tattoos. Most of the sellers have laid out their wares in the flatbeds of trucks or on the hoods of other cars; some of them, mostly those with the more delicate items, spread everything on blankets or scraps of fabric or plastic tarps to prevent the sand from getting everywhere. Some stalls have signs—wood or cardboard or, rarely, actual paper. The woman selling the bracelets has her prices spray-painted on what looks like the lid to a plastic container.

It’s the sort of gathering that makes everyone thank the Witch that Better Living Industries really does turn a blind eye, no pun intended, to most of the goings-on out in the Zones, because a good percentage of the desert’s living population in one place at one time would be a perfect target for a heavy bomb.

But dracs rarely crash the party, so to speak. Dracs mostly know how to pick their battles, and a group of heavily armed zonerunners whose nerves are already on edge wouldn’t be a good crowd to take on.

No formal rules have been set up for swap meets, given their unreliable nature, besides an unspoken agreement not to settle any argument with fists or blasters in case anybody ends up getting ghosted—the swap meet is still, after all, neutral territory for the moment. There are no requirements as to the quality of what’s being sold, or the legitimacy. Prices vary broadly in nature, all the way from only accepting cold hard carbons (in the style of Tommy Chow Mein) to dealing in whatever you have to offer to barter with.

Overall, the ambiance is friendly and the air is full of easy laughter and welcome chatter as zonerunners exchange stories and rumors about their lives and everything outside of them, but there’s still an undercurrent of tension that’s impossible not to pick up on.

Back in Battery City, sometimes the electric grid was a little bit stronger on days when the generators were needed, and you could almost feel the energy humming beneath your feet when you walked. The whole swap meet feels like that—taut, alive, on the alert.

Docile, but ready to attack at any moment.

They run into Fun Ghoul when he steals the beaded bracelet Poison had “bought”—the woman guarding the items had charged “2c’s/ea. OR a good story” and Poison hadn’t had any money but  _ had _ been able to offer a story. The woman had seemed satisfied with the somewhat expanded tale of what was really just a plagiarized Mousekat episode, though, and now Poison is the owner of a bracelet of badluck beads.

Or at least until Fun Ghoul stumbles into them in a deceptively accidental-seeming fashion, grabs Poison’s wrist as if to steady himself, then slips away quickly.

“HEY,” Poison shouts, and takes off after him, shoving through the crowd of startled people until it’s possible to get ahold of one of Fun Ghoul’s arms and they both go crashing to the ground in a messy tangle, Ghoul kicking and squirming for all he’s worth, while Poison is trying furiously to shove his face into the dirt.

“Get the fuck off me,” Ghoul yells, writhing under Poison’s weight, and tries to spit directly into Poison’s face.

Poison flinches away instinctively. He tries in return to shove a hand into Ghoul’s eyes; teeth sink into flesh, and Poison jerks his fingers away sharply.

There’s blood on Ghoul’s mouth, and he snarls with red-stained teeth.

Show Pony and Kobra finally catch up to them, and Pony sets their hands on their hips, staring disapprovingly down at the two of them on the ground.

“Ghoulie, give it back,” Show Pony sighs, “you’re not supposed to steal from our friends, asshole.”

“He fucking  _ bit _ me,” says Poison in disbelief. There’s still blood smeared on his hand and on Ghoul’s face.

“You jumped on me, motherfucker!”

“Because you  _ stole _ my shit!”

Show Pony claps their hands together loudly, startling them both. “Ghoul. Give the bracelet back, sugar. I know you have the carbons to buy another one; stop trying to wind Poison up for no good reason. Don’t go pulling pigtails neither—now, everything milkshake between you two? Poison, nothing broken?”

“‘M fucking fine,” Poison snaps, standing up and throwing a glare back at Fun Ghoul, who’s still lying on the ground, seething, “would be better if he hadn’t took a piece outta my hand, but whatever.”

Kobra’s trying so incredibly hard not to laugh, he thinks he deserves some sort of recognition, he really does. He brushes some of the clinging dirt off Poison’s clothes sympathetically instead. Fun Ghoul drops the bracelet into the dirt, stands up with as much gathered dignity as possible, and stalks off into the crowd. Kobra finally loses it then, staring after Ghoul’s retreating back, and crows, “Trust you to lose  _ bad _ luck beads two seconds after you got ’em—fuckin’ typical—”

“Oh, shut up, idiot,” Poison groans, “he fucking  _ bit _ me,” but that only serves to make Kobra laugh even harder, clutching his sides and wheezing helplessly.

Poison sighs exaggeratedly, but gives in pretty quickly and cracks a smile, and they both grin giddily at each other while Show Pony watches, feeling comfortably fond, and shakes their head.

The rest of the swap meet goes without a hitch, and they finally pick up some useful things, such as bandanas to keep the sand out of their mouths, and bleach for Kobra because he wants to bleach his hair, and a pair of goggles that provide additional protection for Poison, since Kobra still has his glasses. The goggles turn out to have a night vision setting that the seller didn’t know about but that Kobra is able to turn on, and Poison is completely thrilled by the eerie greenish color that everything is when the night vision is on.

It’s a good day overall, if a bit exhausting.

Show Pony gets stopped by every other person they pass, which is interesting at first but gets old after a while. Pony dutifully listens to reports of drac activity, clasps hands with old friends, and nods sympathetically when stories are told of those ghosted.

More casualties of an endless standoff.

And then there’s Poison’s hand, of course. The bleeding has stopped by now (Poison was able to exchange five carbons for a box of princess-themed bandages, several of which are now plastered on the bite mark), and there’s no permanent damage, but that doesn’t really make it much better. Poison’s pride is hurt just as much as his fingers.

Kobra rolls his eyes when Poison complains about it. So maybe Poison has a bit of a grudge against someone that neither of them really know, even after Show Pony tells the two of them a bit more about Fun Ghoul.

He doesn’t like killjoys, Show Pony explains, since he was born and raised in the desert, and never knew anything else. The word for kids who grow up in the middle of the sand and scraggly Joshua trees and coarse grass is  _ sand pups _ , Show Pony informs them. Some of the Phoenix Witch’s personal favorites to collect.

Poison doesn’t want to admit how intriguing it is, that Fun Ghoul was born in the desert. He thinks about a woman dressed in white whose name was Exterminator Jameson; he thinks about wondering if there were kids like him and his brother who were born outside Battery City.

Fun Ghoul is also known all throughout the Zones for being good with building bombs and starting fires and all that sort of shit, which explains the visit to Doctor Death-Defying’s lair and the subsequent conversation.

“And you’re sure you trust this guy?” Poison whines. “He’s an  _ arsonist _ .”

Show Pony shrugs. “With all I got. We all gotta have some specialty.”

Explosives and flammables and other things of that caliber are Fun Ghoul’s specialty, apparently. He’ll blow up or set on fire whatever you want him to as long as you have the right price. He doesn’t work for anyone over anyone else, even though everybody wants him to be working personally with their group.

For  _ some _ unknown reason, Poison thinks sourly. He’s still grumpy about the fucking  _ bite marks _ .

But Fun Ghoul doesn’t run with anyone anyway, according to rumor and Fun Ghoul himself, so it doesn’t matter who wants him where.

Poison thinks that this, along with everything else about Fun Ghoul, is supremely idiotic. Show Pony taught them both how important it is to have a crew or a gang or at least  _ someone _ in your life that you trust enough to watch your back.

Also, Poison is still wary of other people in the desert—it’s difficult to unlearn nearly two decades of being taught that the Zones were full of homicidal terrorists bent on destroying civilization. The people they’ve met at the swap meet all seemed relatively agreeable, and Show Pony and Doctor Death-Defying might seem like the exact opposite of murderous maniacs, but Fun Ghoul is pushing it.

_ You’ve got a lot of growing up to do _ , she says.

Poison turns his face away. He doesn’t want to look at her, with her dark purple silhouette and black-feathered cloak. He’s sick of not understanding what’s going on. He doesn’t want to be a part of something bigger than himself. He just wants to be okay.

She sighs. It sounds like the wind rattling through dead branches.  _ I prefer you as the glittery androgynous sparkplug you will be in a few years. They’ll look back at you now and wonder how they ever could have been so lost. So alone _ .

I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Poison wants to say. He doesn’t know who  _ they _ are. He doesn’t even know who she is. He doesn’t know anything.

He has his own suspicions about her identity, but he doesn’t want to say anything. Saying anything would confirm everything, and he doesn’t think he’s ready for that. He doesn’t think he’s ready to believe in that sort of thing.

Not quite yet, at least.

There’s a moment of silence where he manages to focus on the surroundings. Sometimes the background of his nightmares is shifting and impossible to look at, colors melting into each other until it hurts his head even to think about. This time, they’re in the desert; the sand is an ugly red like the skin underneath a burn. The sky is ashy and trembling.

The sun is a black disc surrounded by a ring of white fire.

The one consolation in all of this, Poison thinks, is that at least the world has already ended once before. It’s much easier to know what to do with the aftermath. It’s much better to be standing there after it’s all over.

_ Oh _ , she says, thoughtful.  _ Didn’t you know that the aftermath is secondary? I would’ve thought you knew. You’re a killjoy, you should know all about those slogans and sayings spit from between bleeding teeth _ .

It isn’t applicable anymore, not now that he’s already living the aftermath. Poison stares at the pulsing black hole shape of the sun, hanging low in the sky above the two of them.

She’s standing beside him and then she’s standing in front of him, looking up towards the falling ashes; some of the dust and debris land on her mask, and she shakes them off. The thick ash swirling towards the sand seems a familiar scene, even though Poison knows he’s never seen it before. It feels like he has. It feels like he’s been here before.

Black rain, he thinks. He doesn’t know how he knows what it is.

She turns her mask, looking down at him; he didn’t notice before that she isn’t standing on the sand but instead hovering, buoyed by the dark purple glow. She’s wearing ropes of beads around her throat, carved and wooden like the badluck beads on his wrist.  _ This isn’t your memory, motorbaby. I think you already know whose it is. It isn’t your future, either. You’re fighting for a future you won’t get to see _ .

He wants to ask what the point is, then, if he won’t be—there. Wherever or whatever that might be. He doesn’t know whose memory it could possibly be, if it even is a memory at all. A product of his fucked-up head.

She smiles. He can’t see her face, but he knows she smiles.  _ The future will happen whether you want it to or not. The future is bulletproof, even if you aren’t. Killjoys never die as long as I have my foot in the door, toes on the threshold. As long as the sun’s radiation still burns the ozone above our skulls. As long as you keep running _ .

You keep saying that, he thinks, and wakes up.


	2. Chapter 2

Even after society had collapsed, community retained its importance. Certain events are just part of life in the desert—music and art and color and sex are all woven together and tied up with neon threads to make  _ concerts _ . Musicians are held in high esteem; gigs are fucking atomic. Show Pony is excited enough by the prospect of taking the two new kids to their first actual concert that they almost break the glass door when they burst into the diner, skating over to the booth where Kobra’s fiddling with an old boombox Doctor Death-Defying had left him to mess around with.

Kobra barely looks up, distracted by his work, but Show Pony isn’t about to get discouraged; they prop their elbows on the back of the booth and announce theatrically, “Get your masks strapped on tight and let’s fuckin’ motor, killjoys, I’m takin’ you two dustdolls to go and see the one and only Mad Gear, the shiniest crazy motherfucker this side of the Miracle Mile, and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”

Poison comes out from the back with grease-stained clothes and says happily, “Hey, Pony, good to see you again. You sure about that last bit, though?”

“Sure as the sky falls, baby,” says Show Pony. They have a flyer advertising the gig tucked into the waistband of their tights, and they pull the paper out to show to the kids. “Mad Gear and the Missile Kid, line by nine tonight at the Hyper Thrust, popsicle central, pay what you can. Music’s a lot like currency, out here in the Zones,” they add, because the new kids might not know all the rules yet. “You can check in carbons and check out some groovy tunes. S’ why the good Doc’s so rich—he trades in radio waves.”

“Uh huh,” says Poison, glancing up from studying the poster.

There’s a picture of a naked woman with crossed-out eyes and twin scorpions covering her breasts. It is perhaps a bit intimidating, Show Pony thinks regretfully. At least the gig isn’t located at the Fuck You House. That would probably be a little too much to start with for a coupla concert virgins.

“But first things first,” Pony says, remembering why they’d skated all the way over to the diner from the other side of Zone Three in the first place, and brightening significantly, “I’m gonna make you killjoys look fancy as seven-eleven hell-raisers. We’re gonna do it now and do it loud.”

Kobra snorts. “Sure,” he says, and goes back to messing with the boombox that’s spread out in pieces across the countertop, doing something incomprehensible to the guts of the speakers.

Poison looks interested enough, at least, Show Pony thinks, with an internal sigh. They really have got to work on these two kids.

Goddamn  _ killjoys _ .

Show Pony’s personal portion of the shack that they share with Doctor Death-Defying is full of costumes. Pony doesn’t exactly spend  _ all _ of their time dressing up and going to shows, but when they do, they make it fucking count. They try to hang up the dresses when they can, but it’s not exactly easy to come by clothing hangers. Besides, Doctor Death-Defying doesn’t always take too kindly to anyone hammering nails into the walls of his little lean-to, even if it  _ is _ to hang up clothes.

Moody old bastard, Pony grouses. You never know what you’re missing until you need it. Which is exactly what they’d thought when they’d managed to wrangle a nearly-full tube of liquid eyeliner at the last swap meet.

It’s a shame the two of them both have such drab hair, Show Pony thinks, hands on their hips, appraising the potential canvases. It’s the same identical shade of brown, Better Living regulation standard, even if it  _ is _ growing out a bit on both of them. Maybe they can work on getting some more colorful dye from Tommy a little later on, once Kobra finally gets around to bleaching his.

For now, at least, the colors are to wear.

Show Pony has a veritable warehouse of fabric stashed in the back of the broadcasting shack, everything from shoes to jackets to hats to gloves. Some clothes are shoved in boxes labelled in the same handwriting as the containers in the first safe house—it feels ages ago, Poison thinks, almost nauseated at the thought—and some are thrown haphazardly across the floor, mingling colors and textures and styles. Show Pony confesses to being  _ a collector of fine items and all sortsa shiny shit _ , which makes Kobra almost laugh, but Poison knows from seeing it personally that Show Pony also likes to give out necessities to those who can’t get any on their own.

Kobra tries on dozens of pairs of boots before he finds ones that actually fit, and exchanges the boots Show Pony had originally given him for the new ones. He makes an effort to try on other clothes as well before getting bored but winds up in simple black jeans and a striped yellow shirt as well as the eponymous jacket. They both know better than to take off their jackets during normal occasions. The  _ KOBRA _ and  _ ELEKTROKAT _ blazons serve as their banners, their flags, their identities. They can be recognized by them.

Poison tugs uncomfortably at the sleeves of the Elektrokat jacket, fidgeting. The purple color is absolutely amazing, but it still doesn’t settle right. Kobra appears content enough with his chosen outfit, the red leather zipped up to his throat while he leans against the wall and messes with part of the dismembered boombox that he’s brought along somehow, but Poison can’t settle on anything. Everything feels wrong, entirely restless and irritated; nothing seems to fit the way it should.

Nothing  _ feels _ right.

Show Pony takes pity on Poison after the next failed attempt to get comfortable in a white shirt with a mutilated Better Living smiling face on the front. They look Poison up and down appraisingly, then say, “How bout I dig out the shinies for ya?” Poison doesn’t know what that means, but Pony doesn’t leave any time for questions, just rummages through another box—helpfully labeled “SHINIES”—and pulls out an armful of sparkling fabric. “Look through that, sugar, see whatcha think.”

Poison looks skeptically down at the mass of slippery glittering objects in their arms, but slowly starts to parse through them. There are sequined pants, glitter-coated shirts, and a few gleaming dresses, long and sleek. Poison runs a hand tentatively over the red sequins on one of the dresses, watching as they sparkle and reflect light with each gentle touch.

There isn’t anything quite like the dress in the pile of clothes. Maybe it would be possible to just turn it into a long shirt. Poison looks up at Show Pony and says hesitantly, “Could I. Can I maybe, uh, maybe try this one on?”

Poison thinks at first that maybe Show Pony will laugh at the request, but Show Pony just visibly lights up at the words, beaming. They shove the cloth at Poison and say, eager and excited, “Jack- _ paz _ , honeydoll, that would look  _ real _ fuckin’ shiny on you! C’mon, sugar, try it on—me an’ the kid’ll go into the other room for a bit so you can have some privacy, and so we can wait for the big surprise reveal.”

“I—okay,” says Poison weakly, and then the other two are gone and it’s just Poison standing there with an armful of slippery red-sequined fabric.

There isn’t anything better to do. Poison takes a deep breath and starts changing outfits.

Trying on the dress is awkward at first, since it takes a few moments to figure out how to adjust all the straps and zip up the back without any help. The dress was obviously made to be worn by someone with more cleavage and hips; it’s too tight in some places and too loose in others. But finally it’s settled enough to be wearable, and Poison chances a proper look in the mirror.

The reflected image doesn’t look at all like what Poison was expecting to see. That’s a good thing, probably; the dress sparkles and gleams even more brightly now with each infinitesimal movement made, and the skirt shifts along the long lines and illusions of curves it creates. Poison doesn’t look at all like the same person as before, the one wearing the awkward purple Elektrokat jacket and dark gray jeans.

The confused little kid from Battery City wouldn’t know how to react to the person reflected in the mirror, Poison thinks dizzily. But the person staring out from the mirror— _ Poison _ —is definitely into it. It just feels—

It feels good. Somehow. The dress catches the light when Poison turns, running a hand along the smooth line of the dress where it gathers at the waist and bunches out. It’s weird—but still really good, almost unnervingly so; Poison can’t stop staring.

It looks—

Poison hesitates; it still feels weird to think about the reflection in the mirror in this sort of way.

It looks fucking  _ sexy _ . It  _ feels _ that way too.

The awkwardness from before returns with a vengeance when Poison creeps over to the door and beckons mutely for Show Pony to come back and assess the damage done. Show Pony looks over the whole picture for a long agonizing moment without saying anything, then shakes their head slowly, and says, “Wait a minute, sugar, you can’t go out lookin’ like that, lemme go get my kit,” and prances off into the other room again.

Poison stands there, shivering—the dress isn’t exactly warm, since there aren’t any real sleeves, just straps and a few stray buttons—and thinks warily,  _ explosives? _ because that’s what it usually means when anyone else says something about their  _ kit _ .

Either it’s explosives, or they’re referring to their junk, but Show Pony’s really not that kinda girl.

Not that kinda girl, Poison thinks, smoothing the edge of the skirt and looking back at the mirror. Something about  _ that _ sort of feels good, in the same way the dress itself feels good. It’s weird, definitely, but it’s a good kind of weird. It’s the kind of weird that sends shivers all up and down your spine.

Show Pony’s mysterious kit turns out to be, of course, just a basic makeup kit, put together from whatever decaying artifacts of cosmetics Show Pony has managed to scavenge and gather over the years. Some items are in better shape than others; most of the lipsticks are half-crushed and melting, and the eyeshadows are hopelessly mixed together, but there are several nearly full eyeliner pencils. The eyeliner is easy enough for Show Pony to rub around Poison’s eyes, licking their thumb and smearing the makeup across their eyelids. Poison blinks, eyes watering, and opens their mouth to say—something, anything.

“Lips together, sugar,” Show Pony murmurs, holding out a tube of red lipstick. It tastes waxy and weirdly sweet, but when Poison exhales slowly and looks in the mirror one more time, the reflection looking back is a completely different person—someone who’s more confident, older, sparkling and shiny and androgynous, yes, but above all  _ different _ .

Poison looks and looks and thinks  _ good _ , and  _ finally _ , and  _ yes _ .

Show Pony gets in some finishing touches on the lipstick, rubbing the pad of their thumb over Poison’s lower lip to spread the color, and presses a quick kiss to the corner of Poison’s mouth before stepping back and grinning wide. “Looks perfect as motherfucking poison, babydoll, let’s motor.”

Poison’s suddenly feeling dizzy, looking at the bright streak of red on Pony’s smile, but obediently follows them out to where Kobra is waiting, draped across the couch and trying to unscrew the fastenings of his blaster.

Of course, Kobra rolls his eyes with all the predictable tact of a younger sibling and cracks up when he first sees the dress. “Fucker, you look like a  _ girl _ ,” he crows, then freezes and says haltingly, “— _ oh _ . Um. Did you, uh, is that—?”

“I’m still your older brother, asshole,” Poison snaps, shoving Kobra’s shoulder, “and fuck off, I’m the prettiest goddamn girl you’re ever gonna see, so quit running your mouth and compliment me.”

“Well, in that getup I guess we’re not just bringing ourselves to the party, we’re bringing the party to everyone else. What d’you want me to say? You’re a very pretty girl, now get over yourself, idiot.”

Show Pony hoots with laughter at that comment; it’s probably more words strung together than Kobra has ever said in their presence before. “Party! Poison, you’re a real thrill, a kickflip car-crash stun-ride, a motherfuckin’  _ party _ . S’ just fuckin’ jazzy—Party Poison, double the threat and double the charm, yeah?”

“I—” There isn’t a good response to that. “It’s—yeah.”

Party Poison.

It feels good, that same weird tingling sort of  _ yes yes yes _ that putting on the dress or the makeup induced, something electric running just underneath their skin. Party Poison rubs their arms to keep the goosebumps at bay, unable to stop grinning over at their brother even when he rolls his eyes and sticks out his tongue. They feel like they’re floating, buoyed by a sudden giddy lightness. It just feels so goddamn  _ right _ , like they’ve been given something they didn’t know they needed.

Show Pony notices the shivering and goes back to digging through a couple of boxes. “Gonna getcha somethin’,” they say, muffled slightly, up to their elbows in costumes. They pull out a glittery silver belt and hand it over; Party Poison fastens it around their waist, tugging at the dress until it falls in bunches of fabric, the illusion of a pleated skirt.

“I like it,” Party Poison says softly. Kobra has gone back to disemboweling his gun; Show Pony is still rummaging. They turn around, thrilling at the sensation of the skirt spinning around their thighs. It still feels fucking  _ hot _ .

“It looks really awesome,” Kobra says without looking up. He fumbles with a loose screw and swears as he almost drops it. “Shit! Uh. Dude, it’s just— _ shit _ , is—?”

The unasked question lingers in the air. “’S fine,” Party Poison mutters, looking away. “Still your brother, not really a girl, just—yeah.” Kobra looks up then, his eyes meeting theirs, and presses his lips together. “I guess not really a guy, either.”

Kobra relaxes. “Like Pony,” he says. “Cool.”

Show Pony shouts triumphantly, yanking something blue and leather from the bottom of the box they’ve been demolishing. “Fuck, yeah! Fuckin’ aces, sugar, I gotcha your new colors. Try this on for size, babydoll.”

They’re holding out a jacket—blue leather with thin red-and-white stripes across the shoulders. The black elastic fabric on the hem of the right sleeve is frayed to hell, but otherwise it looks—

“Yes,” says Party Poison, surprising themself with how much they suddenly want,  _ need _ , the jacket. “Fuck.  _ Yes _ .”

Show Pony tosses it over to them. “Can’t have a chill catching you before you catch the chill,” they say, maneuvering themself back to their feet and pushing at the bundle of blue leather in Party Poison’s arms impatiently. “C’mon, put it on!”

Party Poison obeys. The jacket is snug in the shoulders, and the sleeves are a bit short; they tug a loose thread from the right cuff, then push the sleeves up to their elbows, making it deliberate. There’s a logo where the left breast pocket would be that says  _ DEAD PEGASUS GASOLINE _ and has a bright red silhouette of the front half of a horse with X’d-out eyes and feathered wings erupting from its back.

The jacket fits better than the purple Elektrokat one had, even with the unspooling cuff and too-short sleeves and tightness of the zipper when Party Poison zips it shut. With the jacket on, the dress looks like a red skirt that goes down to their mid-thigh. It looks good. It  _ feels _ good.

“There ya go,” says Show Pony, and smiles blindingly at them when Party Poison adjusts the sit of the shoulders slightly and twirls around to show off the whole look. “ _ Now _ you’re ready for the real deal, sugar, s’ just all fuckin’  _ sorts _ of plus ones.”

The promised concert is far enough away that Show Pony commandeers not the banged-up old van but an olive-green Jeep from the makeshift graveyard of car parts and scrap metal behind the diner for the occasion. Show Pony even wears boots for once (“Can’t drive in my wheels, unfortunately,” they explain), although they still hook their skates to their belt right next to their blaster, just in case.

The shadows are lengthening like so many ghosts by the time Show Pony gets all three of them bundled into the Jeep and turns the key in the ignition. The sand is starting to cool down as the night creeps closer and closer. The faint, lonely sound of a coyote howling far away drifts through the dunes, echoing eerily in the dusk. Party Poison shivers and rubs their arms through the rough leather of their new jacket.

It’s easy enough to tell when they’re getting close to the Hyper Thrust, because the light from inside the building is spilling out into the desert. Show Pony parks the Jeep next to a group of other cars; most of them are covered in spray paint and a good number of dents and scratches and laser burns. Several have broken windows or mismatched parts.

The Hyper Thrust looks like it used to be someone’s house, pre-Wars. The music is reverberating through the floorboards and into the ground, carried along through the air, ramping up the anticipation even further and further and further.

“Fuck,” Party Poison says roughly. They have to stop for a moment to catch their breath before they keep walking, leaning against the cool metal of the Jeep, focusing on not shaking apart before they even make it inside the building.

They’re still shivering, just a little bit, not enough that they can’t pass it off as being caused by the sudden chill of the evening. The sky is a deep purpling blue above them.

Kobra doesn’t say anything, but he wraps a comforting arm around their shoulders, and they lean gratefully into the sturdy warmth of his chest. The skirt flutters around their bare legs; they keep getting distracted by the faint shimmer of sequins catching the last little bits of fading sunlight.

The Hyper Thrust is apparently a popular venue for concerts like these, as well as a personal favorite of Mad Gear himself. Spray-paint letters on the half-open door proclaim jeeringly FUCK YOUR WORLD, and there are people who must be bouncers guarding the entrance; Show Pony tips an imaginary hat to them as they slip through the door. Kobra and Party exchange a look before following them in.

The building is packed full to bursting with bodies, the taste of salt and sweat and dust thick in the air, and the music is so loud that the floor shudders underneath their feet when they first walk in. It’s just one main room, with a staircase off to the side where people are leaning over the railing with drinks and glittery outfits, looking down at the makeshift stage at the front, built against the wall.

There’s more graffiti on the concrete wall by the staircase—FUCK YOUR FUTURE in all capital letters, the paint glowing in the reflection of the neon and the purplish blacklights. NOTHING IS SACRED. HARM EVERYONE. SAVE YOURSELF TONIGHT.

The stage itself is lit up with spotlights that are leaping and crisscrossing the room, and the neon flashes throughout the crowd, pulsing and flickering. It’s intoxicating and beautiful and Party Poison is in love with the way it feels to be standing there on the edge, knowing you’re going to jump.

“You killjoys want anything to drink?” Show Pony says, raising their voice to combat the deafening sound of music and shouting; Party glances over at Kobra, then shakes their head quickly.

The music doesn’t sound at all like anything they’ve ever heard before. Kobra’s illegal audio samples back in Battery City were distorted and almost soft, fuzz-pedaled into submission, old classics from pre-Wars days of free speech. This is loud and unapologetic, a riot of guitars and drums and explosive stage effects; Mad Gear himself climbs onto the stage just as the spark showers at the corners go off, shooting synthetic flames towards the ceiling. In the sudden bursting light from the sparks, his face looks sharp and shadowed; his arms are bare when he raises them high as the supporting band crashes into the first song without preamble.

The crowd screams furiously, pushing in a wave of energy towards the stage. Mad Gear drops to his knees as he screams into the mic,  _ hiding in the portrait of our atomic stun _ , reaching out to catch the desperate grabbing hands of the people closest to the stage, riding high on the answering roar of the crowd as they shout his words back at him— _ WE GOT A MEDICAL EMERGENCY, MEDICAL EMERGENCY! _

The entire room screams together as Mad Gear strides across the stage and kicks over the mic stand.

“Fucking hell, I think I’m in love,” Party announces dreamily to no one in particular. Kobra, still standing at their shoulder, rolls his eyes with admirable patience.

The music feels electric, hypnotic, coursing wildly through their bloodstream and pounding in their ears. It feels like something living, something calling out for more.

“Maybe you oughta take a second to meet the man in question before you plan to go cruising off to Museum Row hand in hand,” Show Pony advises, trying their hardest to keep a straight face when they talk. Party Poison just waves them away without even looking back. There are wistful stars shining in their eyes when they gaze longingly up at the stage.

“ _ You _ used to have a crush on, like,” Party argues vaguely, pointing over at Kobra, “back in—” and then they stop, mouth still open in the middle of a word. The eyeliner makes their eyes look impossibly wide.

It’s less of a crush on Mad Gear himself and more of a crush on the  _ music _ he’s diffusing.

They haven’t talked about Ray since they left Battery City. Party knows that the middle of a crowd at a concert isn’t the best place to have that conversation; they stare at Kobra, willing him to understand. Show Pony seems to realize that something’s wrong, but they don’t say anything, just stand there waiting for a decision to be made.

Kobra breaks the eye contact first, looking away towards the graffitied wall on the other side of the room. “Whatever,” he says, or doesn’t say; his mouth barely moves, and the music is detonating in their eardrums. He lifts his head and looks back at Party, and they can hear it as clearly as if he had spoken aloud— _ I don’t wanna fucking talk about it _ .

“Yeah, okay,” Party mumbles. They reach for their brother, tipping their head against his shoulder, elbowing him in the ribs. “Time to fuckin’ dance, I guess.”

The whole thing is a fucking mess. Show Pony grabs onto Party’s wrist and drags them out into the mass of bodies forming more of a whirlpool than a mosh pit, a fucking neon aesthetic Charybdis, less dancing and more falling apart. Kobra is tagging a few steps behind, shoulders drawn up tight; Show Pony gets their hands around Party’s waist from behind and guides them, and Party Poison leans back into the comfortable solidness of Show Pony’s chest and lets them move together to the current of the music.

They’re thinking about Mad Gear on the stage—in one particularly bright burst of neon light, Party had been able to see his face, sharp and alive and almost worshipful—and the feeling of being touched from all sides by people they don’t know and can’t see, and the heat and press of bodies twisting together as the music strums through the crowd, carrying them higher.

Mad Gear screams out something fierce and primal,  _ COME ON, COME ON AND FUCK THIS WHOLE WIDE WORLD _ , and the crowd roars back at him, dancing like they’re being pulled along. Show Pony leads because it’s easiest; Party doesn’t have to do anything, just close their eyes and tip their head back against Show Pony’s shoulder.

They can still taste the waxy-sweet lipstick every time they lick their lips, and that just reminds them of Show Pony doing their makeup with a steady, concentrating hand, the quick press of Show Pony’s mouth against theirs, the feeling of the dress clinging to their thighs every time they move. Party Poison is dazzled and turned on and kinda confused already, but it’s easiest just to roll with it and let Show Pony guide them.

Their skin feels like it’s electric, buzzing, static-shocked all over. Party twists around until their mouth is against Show Pony’s neck; Show Pony’s hands are still holding onto them, resting against their hips, pulling them in. Party thinks about that ledge again—standing on the edge, knowing you’re about to jump—any second now—

There could be anything waiting for them—Party closes their eyes and steps forwards off the ledge. They open their mouth and bite down on the tendons in Show Pony’s neck, holding the skin between their teeth, nipping at Show Pony’s throat. Show Pony’s fingertips are pressing into the hollows of their hips hard enough to leave bruises.

It feels good. Party pushes forwards, rubbing their tongue over the faint pinkish bite marks on Show Pony’s skin, and Pony turns their head, pressing their mouth into Party’s hair, kissing their temple. “Party fucking Poison,” Show Pony murmurs, so that only the two of them can hear. “Fuckin’ radioactive.”

The freefall is addictive; Party Poison lifts their head and leans towards Pony’s mouth again, but Show Pony covers their mouth with one hand, stopping them. Party frowns against their palm, confused, terrified of reading the signals wrong. Nervousness twists unpleasantly in their stomach.

“Not inside,” Show Pony murmurs, and slowly removes their hand. “There’s rules here, sugar, and this is too dangerous. Not inside the building.”

“Oh,” Party Poison says, the word swallowed up by the furious detonation of noise surrounding them both from all sides. “I’ll just—”

Show Pony grabs onto their wrists when they start to move away, to look for Kobra, for someone who quietly knows everything. “C’mon,” Show Pony says, and smiles. “You wanna? We can go outside.”

They go together, pushing through the crowd. Everything is a collision in Party’s skull, an endless loop of  _ drinks clothes glitter sound lights touch music _ that they can’t switch off, an electric current like the one running through Battery City. They’re shaking slightly from the strength of the sensations and the raw emotions and sheer panicky anxiety—they don’t really know what to do, what Show Pony will want them to do, what’s going to happen. Show Pony kicks open the rusting metal door at the back of the building, right by the stairs that are still covered in sparkling, alien people with unfair amounts of ease, and then they’re outside with the cool night air everywhere.

The sky is black and starless. There’s a pale blob hovering vaguely above the outline of the horizon that could be the moon, watching them.

Show Pony finally releases their arms, and Party freezes again, unsure of what to do next, but Show Pony just laughs a little breathily and pulls them forwards until Show Pony’s leaning back against the wall, Party pressed up against their chest, Pony’s hands running across their shoulders and down their back, sliding back up to stroke their hair, glide across their cheek.

“Yeah,” Show Pony says, decisive, and kisses them, and kisses them, and keeps kissing them until they forget to worry too much. Everything that isn’t Show Pony’s mouth and hands melts away into nothingness.

Party Poison thinks about a confused and nervous kid holding hands with a faceless girl during school lunch hours, kissing her underneath a tree that shouldn’t have been able to exist in that climate, lying in bed and touching fingertips to mouth and deciding that it felt good. It feels good.

Show Pony wraps their arms around Party’s waist and tugs them forwards even further, sliding a leg between their thighs, and Party gasps and clutches their shoulders, suddenly terrified again. “S’ okay,” Show Pony murmurs into their mouth, reaching for their hand and slowly moving it down, across, until Party’s fingers are curling into the soft material of their shirt. “You’re okay, you’re perfect.”

Party takes the hint, heart thudding in their chest. They get one hand up to the hem of Show Pony’s shirt, twisting their fingers in the fabric.

Something clicks together in their throat, and they think about standing on the edge of the cliff. It feels bold and unafraid. They slide their hand up even further, pushing underneath the tight black undershirt Show Pony always wears, and instead of brushing across warm skin, their fingertips bump against something that feels suspiciously like some part of a circuit board.

Party Poison pulls their hand carefully out from underneath Show Pony’s shirt and frowns, unsure of what to say.

“Oh no, guess you discovered my big secret,” Show Pony says, sounding just as unconcerned as usual, and kisses them again, getting a hand around the back of Party’s neck and into their hair, pulling  _ hard _ until Party tips their head back helplessly and moans with their eyes shut tight, frantic and hoping. “Blame the Doc for it, he’s the one who put me back together—scrap metal junkyard, same old shit, dug the track-bomb outta my arm and all that—but I did the cutting and stitching myself, afterwards.”

Bold and unafraid. Party slips their hand back under Show Pony’s shirt, rubs across the flat space where artificial breast tissue would have been, had Show Pony been a normal droid—a pornodroid, Party thinks, feeling lightheaded, but the dizziness is mostly because of the way Show Pony keeps biting at the curve of their neck, teeth scraping lightly over skin.

“You can still feel all this, right?” Party whispers, and they grind their hips against Show Pony’s.

Show Pony just nods, looping their arms around Party’s neck again, and slowly, slowly pushes down, until Party is all but kneeling on the ground, still holding onto Show Pony’s hips. It feels like exhilaration, like waiting to fall. Show Pony nods again, a silent confirmation, and slides their hands into Party’s hair.

“Tell me what you want me to do,” Party urges, tugging at the waistband of their tights, kissing the exposed line of Pony’s hipbone. The music still booming in the background makes everything sharper, easier to focus. “Tell me.”

“Yeah,” Show Pony says. They hook one leg over Party’s shoulders, pulling them closer. “Just no teeth, and you’ll be fine.”

Party laughs breathlessly and kisses their hip again. “Yeah?”

“We don’t hafta do anything, y’know,” Show Pony says, gentle, brushing Party’s hair out of their eyes, caressing, “it’s milkshake either way,” but Party Poison sets their jaw and steps off the imaginary cliff again.

Keep your eyes open during the plummet.

“No,” they say, “no, I want to.”

It takes a moment, but then Show Pony exhales in acquiescence. “Yeah,” they say. “Yeah, okay. C’mon.”

Party kisses the same spot one more time, and Show Pony shows them how to use their mouth, and then their hands, until Pony is moving their hips slowly against Party’s tongue with Party’s fingers buried inside them.

Show Pony returns the favor by going down on them as well, practiced but still careful, and Party gasps and traces their fingertips carefully over Show Pony’s cheekbones when they do something with their tongue and their mouth that feels like fireworks and spark rockets, and thinks,  _ yes, yes _ .

Party Poison dyes their hair bright cherry-red because that’s the first color they can find, packed in too close to everyone who’s pressed together in the grody tile bathroom somewhere—some nameless shack of a venue, a sleazy neon party with Kobra helping rinse out the worst of the dye when Party bends their head over the grime-spotted sink that somehow, miraculously, has a little dusty water trickling out of the tap. Kobra drags his fingers through their hair, his fingers crimson-stained—it’s grown out quite a bit, but Party likes it that way, long and tangled and messy and dangerous. Some anonymous partygoer lends the two of them a combination knife tool that includes a pair of dull scissors, and someone else has an electric razor that can be plugged into one of the power strips that were originally connected to the amps on stage. Kobra helps to trim down the sides so that it’s longer on top and shorter underneath—and when Party looks up into the cracked mirror again, brushing shorn strands of rabies-red hair into the porcelain sink, that lost little kid from Battery City has almost entirely been erased.

The person looking back at them is reckless, wild, electric. They’re wearing a too-tight shirt and a too-short skirt, heavy boots like metallic anchors, makeup smeared viciously around their eyes. There’s still dye streaked across their skin, lining their throat, their collarbone; it looks like blood. It looks like bruises.

And Party Poison bares their teeth in a manic grin directed right at the hazy flicker of their reflection and thinks  _ good _ , thinks  _ finally _ , thinks  _ yes _ .

Party Poison still has nightmares, even if they’re different now. They never start out as nightmares. Sometimes they don’t even start out as dreams at all. Sometimes it isn’t obvious what part is the dream and what part isn’t, not until much afterwards when they’re lying flat on their back, shivering and sweaty and terrified of what didn’t happen. Waking up in a body bag, staring at a dark ceiling. Sometimes they’re captured by draculoids, or sometimes by Exterminators, or sometimes by monsters with faces like liquid pits of tar. Shifting things with too many teeth. Hollow-ribbed creatures hungry for pain and despair and loss and  _ missing you, missing you to death _ . Sometimes it’s none other than Korse who’s chasing them, moving jaggedly like a badly rendered image on a television screen, eyes dark and focused. Kobra is beside them, holding onto their hand like the two of them are children on the way to school again, talking about potential space explorers and impossible sand zombies. It’s impossible to remember precisely where school was—Sector ___, Building ___, Room ___? Blank spaces, empty holes waiting for memories to flood back and fill them up. It’s almost a relief when no memories come.

They’re walking towards the diner with Kobra, talking about nothing in particular, when everything goes wrong.

Party Poison notices first—the old dusty venetian blinds are closed. Normally the blinds are wide open, even during the brightest hours of the day when the glare of the sun is blinding. The light always comes flooding in, casting shadows on the old concrete floor, illuminating the millions of dust motes in the air. Even Show Pony doesn’t ever close the blinds, in case something goes southside unexpectedly.

It’s a warning, that the blinds have been pulled shut, Party thinks. It’s a signal.

The sudden headrush of adrenaline is dizzying; they grab onto Kobra’s arm to get him to stop, to assess the situation. The air is buzzing, and Kobra frowns like he doesn’t understand even though he must understand because he always does. He hesitates before pushing open the glass door, one hand twitching towards the weapon attached onto his belt, tense and cautious.

Kobra always understands what they mean, Party thinks. He always—

The bell above the door hasn’t worked in decades, not since long before the Helium Wars and the bombs, but Party still expects the familiar mechanical tinkling chime that’s tied up with the memories of opening doors in the city.

Instead, there’s a loud static  _ zap! _ noise, and Kobra stumbles backwards, crying out in pain and surprise.

Party screams.

The dracs pour out of the diner, out of the walls, out of the sand; their reaching fingers grab at Party’s clothes and scrape across their face and scrabble at their eyes, pushing into the soft skin of their throat. Hands close around their neck, cutting off their air, strangling them, forcing them away from Kobra. There are impossibly many of them, swarming, massing, collecting into a distended shape then scattering to regroup and encircle the two of them, watching, hunting.

They don’t look human. They never really have, Party thinks, but it’s usually a lot easier to pretend.

Kobra is lying on his back on the sand a few steps away. His jacket is smoking slightly from the laser burn; a bubble of blood swells at the corner of his mouth and then bursts.

Party tries to fight back, but there are too many sharp hands pulling at them from all sides, tearing their shirt, pointed fingernails ( _ clawstalonsknives _ ) digging into their skin. The swarm descends upon Kobra’s limp lifeless body next, clawing and tearing at him, ripping into his flesh.

Their teeth flash when they bite down hungrily.

The blood is bright, infectious red; it spurts from his throat, from the arteries underneath his skin.

Party keeps struggling, trying to reach their brother, but Kobra isn’t there anymore—he’s standing in front of them with hollow eye sockets, thin trails of blood and slime dripping down his face.

He smiles and holds out a hand.

His eyeballs are nestled in his palm, slick and bloody.

He squeezes.

Party crumples to the ground and vomits up a puddle of something black and sticky, like motor oil, something that moves sluggishly across the sand with a mind of its own, spreading and growing eyes and teeth and claws dripping with something that’s dark and grimy. Kobra is pulling at his own face, peeling it away from the muscle in bloodied strips, digging his fingernails underneath the skin and  _ scraping _ .

Pieces of his flesh fall onto the ground with soft, sickening  _ plop-plop-plop _ noises, like rotten fruit.

The sand is burning, and Kobra is burning, and Party can’t move, can’t do anything but fall forwards into the flames that leap and dance and reflect the mask of an Exterminator instead of Party’s face and everything is burning, everything is on fire, everything—

_ You really are fucked up _ , an amused voice says from somewhere behind them, and Party spits out a mouthful of blood and bile and bone before turning to look.

She’s still wearing the feathered robe and the purple mask. She kneels down next to Kobra’s mutilated body and picks a fat white maggot from his hollow eye socket, holds it between her thumb and forefinger for a moment in contemplation, then flicks it away.

Party stumbles to their feet and retches again, but nothing comes up. The sand is slick-black, like tar.

They think, fucking fuckin’  _ FUCK _ .

The Phoenix Witch tilts her head to the side. She says,  _ I don’t think you really understand the gravity of your situation _ .

She gathers up something from the sand next to Kobra’s lifeless corpse.

A motorcycle helmet, Party notices numbly. It’s unfamiliar and familiar all at once, bright orange with red racing stripes, visor flipped down.

The word  _ KOBRA _ is written on the side.

There’s blood smeared across the helmet, drying slowly in the heat of the sun. The stench of rot and decay is suffocating.

_ I can only illuminate you as long as you walk in my territory _ , she says.  _ As soon as you cross the border back into the cleaned-up cyanide corporation white dream of the city, I won’t be able to find you and guide you home. Just keep running, little gutter rat _ .

Party tries to close their eyes; they can’t move. They can’t imagine ever returning to Battery City.

At least not voluntarily.

Not without Kobra. Not without their brother, living and breathing and real, nothing like the cold lifeless shell on the sand, flies buzzing around its melting insides.

The Phoenix Witch crosses the sand towards them and lifts one hand, placing her sharp talon on Party’s forehead. The press of her thumb against the bridge of their nose is deliberate, purposeful, focused. It leaves a smudge of something cool and scented that lingers even after she moves away.

Somehow, the two of them wind up tagging along when Show Pony makes one of their routine runs to what is apparently the only trustworthy mechanic in the entire desert, to see what scrap metal and other things they can exchange or salvage for their own purposes. The mechanic in question is apparently a friend of Show Pony’s or maybe just an acquaintance or maybe an old lover or some combination thereof, because everyone in the Zones is at least one of those things to Show Pony if they’ve been around for long enough to matter.

It’s like six degrees of separation; fucking  _ everybody _ knows Show Pony.

The mechanic’s shop is located in the same little cluster of buildings that houses Tommy Chow Mein’s makeshift grocery, situated at the edge of Zone Five and Zone Six, in an area that should—according to every available information from Battery City—contain levels of radiation high enough to kill them if they spend any more than three hours there.

Show Pony just snorts when Kobra casually mentions this particular factoid. “Who told you that, the Director herself? It’s bullshit, is what it is. The radiation doesn’t get bad enough to worry till you get to the Belt—outside Z-6, that is. Rumor is that there isn’t anything beyond that.”

Kobra knows that isn’t true, because Japan is still functional according to everything he’s ever heard both in and out of the city, and the Director is  _ from _ Japan, so there has to be something out there.

He doesn’t like to think about the possibility that this little spot in the desert around California might be all that’s left of the world—that’s too much to process, too bleak of a future to imagine. There has to be something else out there.

Somewhere, somewhere, there has to be something.

“Why isn’t there a closer mechanic, anyway?” complains Party as they help to load stuff into the Jeep that technically belongs to Doctor Death-Defying but that Show Pony’s borrowing for the trip, with the promise that they’ll return it in the same or better condition. “You’d think it would be easier to just . . . I mean, there are gas stations all over the place and shit, why can’t there be mechanics too?”

“Dracs don’t usually come creeping out that far into the dustlands, so it’s safer for everyone involved,” Pony explains, and lifts the last crate of empty batteries into the back of the Jeep. They’ll trade used materials for bits of junk that the mechanic couldn’t use, and it’ll work out well for everyone. Besides, they can stop to visit Tommy on the way back and see what new delicacies he’s managed to bring in this time. One time he even managed to wrangle some fresh fruit. Tommy has his connections in the Battery from his previous life as a juvie hall, and no one is stupid enough to question them. “And, bass boosted, Jet’s the best mechanic to be found in the Z’s—really knows his stuff, that kid does.”

“Well, whatever,” Party says huffily, giving up, and stomps around to climb into the shotgun seat, leaving Kobra to take the back. Pony’s driving; they’d offered to teach the two of them how, but fuel is expensive and time is costly, and they’d collectively given up after the first few lessons.

When they finally arrive at the mechanic’s, Kobra hops out of the Jeep and starts unloading the stuff from the back; he doesn’t mind being the one to do the majority of the lifting and carrying, most of the time. Party whines the whole time if anyone manages to force them to do anything mechanically related and Show Pony’s skates generally get in the way of safe procedures. Kobra doesn’t mind, though; they all play to their strengths, and this is just one of his.

He’s carrying a box around to the front of the Jeep when he hears Party start to say something then stop like they’ve choked on the words, and Kobra’s head snaps up instinctively, ready to defend his brother from whatever’s caused them to react like that.

He’s expecting to have to fight off some sort of wild animal, or possibly a herd of dracs, but instead he looks up and sees a ghost.

“Hey, Mikey,” says the ghost—Ray, who has to be a ghost, who can’t be anything other than a ghost, because Ray is supposed to be dead, not manning mysterious mechanic’s stations in the middle of the desert—“long time no citizens band connection, huh?”

And Kobra doesn’t think, doesn’t stop to figure out an explanation, just drops the box of scrap metal he’s been holding and throws himself at Ray.

They stumble backwards together, and almost fall over, but Kobra doesn’t let go and Ray doesn’t either and then they’re clinging to each other and sort of laughing and crying at the same time, and Party is shouting something gleeful and disbelieving and joining in on the hug, but nothing else matters, because Ray is alive.

It’s been a while of Kobra just holding on and reassuring himself that he’s awake and he’s not dreaming and he’s not hallucinating or anything when he realizes he’s crying, but even that knowledge just makes him sniffle and hold on even tighter, until Ray complains that his ribs are seriously going to fucking  _ break _ , let the fuck  _ go _ before he’s stuck having to breathe with a collapsed lung to deal with on top of everything else, and Kobra makes a helpless bitten-back noise somewhere between a watery laugh and a little sob, because it’s almost, almost like before.

Except for the endless list of all the ways in which it isn’t.

He doesn’t want to let go. He thinks if he lets go, he’ll wake up in his bed in Battery City and it will all have been one horrible long dream.

“So, hey,” says Show Pony casually, and Kobra tenses from his position buried in Ray’s shirt, leaning against his comfortingly solid chest, “you kiddos never mentioned you  _ knew _ the mechanic so up-close and personal-like, much less in the sense that you would start climbing all over him.”

Kobra has to let go, then, even though he doesn’t want to. He knows he isn’t going to disappear if he lets him out of his sight, but it still takes a conscious effort to force his fingers to uncurl, his feet to step back. He thinks, if he leaves again, this time he won’t come back at all. He settles for standing as close as he can without actually stepping on anyone’s feet.

“Well,” says Show Pony, with admirable grace, “since you’ve never technically been introduced, I’ll do the honors—Jet, this is Party Poison and the Kobra Kid; Kobra and Party, this is my good friend Jet Star.”

“You fucker, you changed your name,” Party says, grinning, and punches Jet in the bicep. “We were out there scouting for  _ our wimpy friend Ray from the Battery _ , and not thinking to ask for some muscled greaser who goes by the name of Jet fuckin’ Star—tell me how that’s fair, motherfucker?”

“You changed your hair,” Jet retorts stubbornly, messing up Party’s cherry-red hair with one hand, ignoring when Party swipes at his fingers, “and you changed your name too, dumbass— _ Party Poison _ , what the hell? That’s like, the most ridiculous name in the entire fucking world.”

“That’s me,” says Party Poison, impossibly smug, and tries and fails to grab a handful of Jet’s hair in revenge.

The name  _ is _ ridiculous, but it suits them, Kobra thinks. He doesn’t know what to say; he feels clumsy and unnecessary. He wants to ask how Jet managed to get out of Battery City, how he met Show Pony, how he became a mechanic. He doesn’t think he’d be able to get any words out without choking on them.

Jet Star is supposed to be  _ his _ friend. Mine, he thinks sourly, not even trying to hide it from Party. His brother can find their own friends.

“So,” Show Pony says. “How’d you killjoys come to know the rocket boy?”

It’s nothing really, Kobra doesn’t say; it’s just that back when we were kids I think I got him arrested and for a while I thought I got him killed, he doesn’t say. Party gives him a  _ look _ , eyebrows raised curiously, then turns back to Jet and shrugs. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s a small world after all?”

A year, Kobra thinks. It’s almost been a full year. The carefree, happy-go-lucky kid from Battery City has grown up in the interim.

He studies Jet Star and thinks about how different he looks—his hair is much longer, his hands have new calluses, and there’s a sharpened, determined set to his jaw that shows the gravity of their current situation. If Kobra didn’t know him, he would think of Jet as just another zonerunner, trying to make a living outside of Better Living’s rules. He’s managed to integrate himself nearly completely into this new world.

He thinks, I shouldn’t miss him like this now that we’re together again, but for some reason he still feels like crying. He had been deliberately ignoring the nagging thoughts that crept up when he was sleeping or distracted and whispered  _ he’s dead he’s dead and it’s all your fault _ , because if Party wasn’t thinking about it, then Kobra wasn’t going to either. He didn’t know why Party was ignoring the thoughts, he just knew that the thoughts were there. It was, and still is, impossible to explain to anyone who’s not his brother.

“Well, I sure do hate to ruin the reunion,” Show Pony interrupts, and to their credit they do look apologetic, “but we do actually have to work out some laundering for these boxes of junk here, so if I could have my mechanic back for a moment—”

“Right! Sorry.” Jet shakes himself a little, then swivels around. “Where’s the stuff?”

He has to come back with us, Kobra thinks. There’s enough room in the diner for another person; he can share Party’s body bag if Jet doesn’t have one of his own. He tugs on Party’s arm and whispers, “Party, Party, he has to,” and Party nods, looking grim and decisive, like it’s already been decided.

Party trails along behind Jet Star and Show Pony as they carry boxes of scrap metal and electrical innards back and forth. Party still refuses to carry anything, but they keep up a steady stream of questions directed at Jet, mostly about the months he’d been missing. Kobra sits on the hood of the Jeep, the metal still slightly warm, and watches them.

“Did the dracs get you?”

“Exterminators,” Jet says, lifting a cardboard box of old telephone wires, wincing at either the memory or the weight of the box in his arms. “Took me to the—you remember the ACF? The Adolescent Correctional Facility? They took me there.”

Party almost trips over a stray circuit board and curses, kicking it away. “How’d you get out, then?”

“Juvie halls. Spies, I guess.” Another crate, this one containing what looks like the inner workings of a broken Victrola, boxy and wooden, the lid dangling from only one hinge. “They had a—a mole working for them on the inside. She, um. She helped me get out of there. Her name was Rosie.”

Was, Kobra thinks. But Party doesn’t ask about the choice of past tense, just frowns a little and says, “So then how did you meet Pony?”

Show Pony actually giggles at that, and even Jet snorts. He wipes his sweaty forehead on his sleeve. “Bad luck and elbow grease. I had some connections with a group out in Zone One, and they got me into fixing up this kinda shit—dry motors, busted tires, overheated engines and whatever else. Guess someone important enough to have some sway discovered I had a knack for automobile doctoring and all that shit. Mechanical stuff, y’know? And Doctor Death’s the spider in the middle of the web, man, he calls the shots. Ponyboy’s his main runner besides—well, you probably already know Fun Ghoul—so of course I met them pretty quick.”

“Oh,” says Party, deflating slightly. “Okay. Shiny.”

“Fuck off with that shit, you’re gonna be a goddamn menace,” Jet complains, pointing at Party. “Pony got to you, didn’t they? And now you’re talking like a roach.”

“Still got the Battery accent, though,” Show Pony comments.

Kobra curls in on himself, uncomfortable. He’s still reluctant to take his eyes off Jet Star, in case he vanishes into nothing. He doesn’t like that they can be identified as killjoys just by the way they sound. He doesn’t like that Jet acts so comfortable, casual, like he’s at home. He shouldn’t be at home out here, because Kobra and Party aren’t out here too.

He wants Party to stop asking a million questions and come talk for him, come make sense of everything he’s thinking, feeling, afraid of. He wants Jet Star to come back to the diner with them. He wants—

PARTY, he thinks, as loudly as he can manage, clenching his fists until his fingernails dig sharply into his palms.  _ PARTY _ .

There’s a pause where he thinks maybe nothing will happen, but then Party stops dead like they’ve been grabbed around the throat. They turn slowly, glancing over at Kobra. “Hey, Kid, you okay?”

Kobra opens his eyes as wide as he can, willing Party to understand. He just—he needs—he doesn’t know what he needs. He needs someone who  _ knows _ .

“They did this back in the Battery too,” he dimly registers Jet saying to Show Pony with a faint, almost staticky burst of laughter, “weirded me the fuck out back then, too. Like twins with ESP or whatever.”

Party grips his wrists, turning his hands over. They’re standing right in front of him suddenly, blocking out the too-large expanse of the desert and the empty, sick sky. The sky is out to get him, Kobra thinks, pressing his forehead into Party’s shoulder so he doesn’t have to look at it anymore. It’s full of eyes that want him to stop seeing things.

“Jet’s okay,” Party says, or doesn’t say, or says without opening their mouth. They wrap one hand around the back of Kobra’s head, holding him there, their other hand still gripping his hand. Kobra pushes his thumb into the raised veins on their wrist, feeling the kick-jump of their pulse underneath the skin, breathing into the fabric of their shirt. Their jacket is unzipped; the heat is stifling.

Kobra can’t hear anything. His ears are stuffed with cotton. He gasps into Party’s shoulder, shoving his thumbnail into the skin of their wrist until it has to hurt, it has to be bleeding, but Party doesn’t seem to notice.

The texture of the blue leather against his cheek. The heat from the sun beating down on his skin. The smell of gasoline and oil and sweat. He slowly forces his fingers to uncurl from Party’s wrist, pushing himself back. He slides down from the hood of the Jeep. The sand crunches and shifts under his feet like it wants to swallow him whole.

“He’s okay,” Party’s saying to the others, one arm curled protectively around Kobra’s shoulders, “it’s just a lot, he—we thought you were dead.”

“I wanted to come get you, I just didn’t know how, and I couldn’t have made it in without a whole army.” Jet is shifting his feet worriedly, glancing periodically at Kobra, still tucked underneath Party’s arm.

Kobra pulls himself upright. This is his friend, he thinks. He’s alive and he’s real and he’s standing in front of them. His hair is longer and his clothes are different and his voice is accented, but he’s the same person who sat on the floor with Kobra and watched a shitty old cartoon over and over. He’s the same person who gave Kobra a flash drive of music, the same flash drive he still has in the front pocket of his jeans. He’s the same person.

Jet is still looking at Kobra like Kobra is a bomb that might detonate; it’s not far from how Kobra himself feels. “Kobra,” he says, hesitant, glancing at Party and then back to Kobra, “I almost forgot, I—I found something I think you could use—I kept it, didn’t know if I would ever see you guys again—wait here for a moment—”

He goes back into the garage, and Kobra bites his tongue and presses closer to his brother without touching. Jet hasn’t run away, he tells himself. He’s here to stay. You have Jet and you have Party and you have Show Pony and Doctor Death-Defying. You’re not alone this time.

“Fucker,” Party says, holding up their wrist; there’s a thin red line across the vein from Kobra’s fingernails. “What the fuck did you  _ do _ ?”

Jet reemerges then, something small and wrapped in white plastic packaging in his hand. He pushes it into Kobra’s palm expectantly. “Contact lenses,” he explains, when Kobra just looks confused. “So you don’t have to wear your glasses all the time—Better’s got a shit ton. I nicked some off a stock truck a while back after—you  _ do _ know Fun Ghoul, right? He and I planted some roadsides along the supply lines, it’s a long story, but—anyway, I just thought it might . . . help.”

“Shit,” says Party. They have their wrist pressed against their mouth, sucking at the bleeding cut. “Cockfucking son of a fuck.”

Kobra agrees with the sentiment. He takes the tiny package and cradles it in his palms.

“Thanks, uh, that’s just—” He looks up, closing his hand around the small packet of contact lenses. “We should have tried harder to find you.”

Jet brushes this off, actually waves his hand in the air like he can swat away Kobra’s useless apologies if he’s quick enough. “Dude, don’t worry, seriously, you couldn’t have known. You guys were both pretty fucked up at the time, anyway.”

“Tell me about it, sweetheart,” Party agrees, emphatic, with a slyly self-deprecating grin; Jet knows about Party’s history with the pills. “I got clean though, thanks to this fucker.” They jab a thumb at Kobra. “Sobered up and got us out before things turned too Floridian.”

“We can tell you the whole story back at the diner,” Kobra says. The plastic crinkles in his hand when he clenches his fist tighter.

Jet hesitates. “You’re—yeah, Pony mentioned some killjoys were staying in the old diner, I had no idea that was you guys. But I . . .” He sighs. “I have a whole fucking business set up out here, I can’t just pack up and hop Zones without any warning. I would need to move all my shit, drive all the wheels over, get the word out . . .”

That’s exactly what you can do, Kobra thinks. That’s exactly what you  _ should _ do.

“Uh, no, that’s exactly what you should do,” says Party, frowning. Their fingers are still holding their opposite wrist almost without realizing it, thumb smearing the miniscule beads of blood across their skin.

“We can come stay with you,” Kobra offers, somewhat desperate. He knows even as he’s saying it that it’s a ridiculous idea. It’s just harder to walk away now that he knows his best friend is still alive.

“I just need time to finish up some projects I’ve been working on, and then I’ll follow you guys wherever you want me to go,” Jet says. “I promise, okay? I promise. I’ll even drive the getaway car if you want—hey, do you two know how to drive? Not to point out the obvious or anything, but I’ve got a whole load of cars and other jazzy shit here, and I know how to fix them if you blow anything up, so—if you wanted, maybe.”

“Dude,” says Party, looking delighted, “ _ fuck _ yes.”

Jet’s voice is amused. “I’ll teach you how to drive stick, but I think Pony should sign a disclosure or some shit, cause you’re gonna fuck it up.”

“ _ Hey _ ,” Party says heatedly. “Am not.”

Show Pony had originally intended for the visit to be a quick one, just a hasty drop-off, but it unspools into a lengthy visit. Pony can’t begrudge Kobra and Party the time spent with their friend; they know what it feels like, to be reunited with family.

Kobra takes a flash drive out of his pocket to show Jet, explains that he’d kept all the music he could when the Exterminators took Jet because the music was all he had left of his best friend and, at the time, his brother.

“We should make a playlist, get Doctor Death to play it on the waves,” Jet suggests, delighted.

“Oh.” Kobra looks down at the tiny lump of gray plastic. “You can have it back, I—”

“No!” says Jet, looking shocked. He shakes his head so hard his hair looks like it’s trying to escape his scalp. “No, no, it has  _ meaning _ now, dummy, what the fuck? Any idiot can grab some old tunes and stick them on a shitty piece of tech. This means something to you, so you should get to keep it. No take-backs.”

Kobra looks down at the flash drive again, then back up at Jet. “I like your hair like this, by the way,” he says, reaching up to tug on one of Jet’s long curls. “S’ better than when you had to keep it short.”

“Yeah, well, now I have to tie it up when I’m working,” Jet complains, “otherwise it gets fucking  _ everywhere _ .”

“ _ Dude _ ,” says Kobra, cracking up at the image of Jet working underneath a car with his hair sticking out all over the place like a dark-brown cloud. Jet makes a few inarticulate sounds of protest before he starts laughing as well, and Party joins in next even though they probably don’t even know what’s so funny, and Show Pony just watches the three of them and smiles fondly.

They’re good people, those kids, Show Pony thinks. They really are.

Party Poison absolutely fucking loves the feeling that comes when they’ve got the windows rolled down all the way and their foot pressing the pedal to the floor, feeling the wind biting sharp teeth into their skin while the radio blares out atomic music. It’s intoxicating, it’s thrilling, it’s exhilarating. It’s completely fucking beautiful. The restless noise in their head switches off as soon as they get their foot on the gas and the key turning gloriously in the ignition. Everything else melts away. Nothing else matters.

It takes a while to get to that point, though. Sometimes it’s still easy, and things just  _ click _ , just fall into place like it was something they should have been doing all along. But sometimes it doesn’t run so smoothly, and there are arguments and disagreements and damaged feelings. Party generally storms off to find Show Pony when things turn too sour; Pony’s alkaline enough to sweeten them up.

“This is part of  _ family _ just as much as riding easy is,” Show Pony says wisely, while they’re painting Party’s fingernails bright pink. “You’re gonna figure that out eventually, sugar, I promise.”

Jet Star takes Kobra driving first, leaving Party to stomp around the diner and sulk. They haven’t been separated from Kobra, not really, since the two of them first stepped outside the high white wall surrounding Battery City.

“Cool the carburetors,” Show Pony groans, then sniggers at the double meaning. “Gimme your other hand.”

Party obediently sticks out their arm. “I just—just—fuck it,  _ fuck _ it, I don’t  _ know _ . I know he’s okay, I always know when he’s okay, he’s just—he isn’t  _ here _ and I can  _ tell _ and it fucking sucks.”

“You two are the weirdest codependent killjoys I’ve ever run across, I swear,” Show Pony says mildly. The quick touches of the nail brush leave cool streaks on Party’s fingernails. “They’re gonna be back in a coupla tracks.”

“I  _ know _ ,” Party says, fidgeting. They start to bring their hand up to their mouth to gnaw on their fingernails, then fling their hand back down. “Fuck!”

It takes another hour and a half before Jet and Kobra return, based on the blinking digital numbers on the old clock radio Kobra had been trying to hook up to a new battery. Party paces back and forth the whole time, restless and unable to settle down, jumping at every noise. Show Pony gives up on distracting them after a while and starts fixing the bearings on their skates instead, pulling out the cushions and sighing dramatically at the worn fabric and foam.

A car door slams, and Party freezes. They can feel the tension draining from their muscles like a wrung-out rag. The muffled sounds of Kobra’s and Jet’s voices drift back to them, unintelligible.

“You took for _ ever _ ,” Party says, slipping through the door to greet the two of them.

Jet rolls his eyes like he was expecting this. “Yeah,” he says heavily. “We got somewhat distracted.”

Party just smirks eloquently at him, all anxiety forgotten. There’s something wild and heated singing through their bloodstream, burning them up inside.

“We took apart the engine.” Jet wipes his face with a bandana, grimacing when he looks down at the dirty cloth. “This shit’s  _ still _ full of fucking motor oil, what the fuck.”

Kobra gives them a look that means he didn’t enjoy the actual driving part as much as he enjoyed demolishing the aforementioned engine. His jacket is draped over one arm; his yellow shirt is covered with dust and grease. He looks exhausted but happy.

“Okay,” says Jet, gesturing at Party. “Your turn, redhead.”

Party is absolutely catastrophic at driving stick. It’s going to take them a while, Jet thinks, trying not to let himself sink into despair. Party is even worse than Kobra. The only good thing they have going for them is that they, unlike Kobra, actually seem to  _ want _ to learn.

Sort of.

“Which one’s the clutch?” Party says, staring.

“Left. Push down on that one first. Once you’ve got the clutch down, hit the brake.”

“What? Why would we do that, fucker, we wanna  _ go _ .”

“Yeah, but not  _ yet _ .” Jet presses his knuckles into his thigh. “Now turn the ignition.”

Party twists the key. The car shudders to life, the engine rumbling; Party’s other hand spasms excitedly on the wheel. “Hey, I fuckin’ did it!”

“Yeah, jack-paz,” Jet says patiently, “now you can shift to first gear. You’re gonna release the brake and rev the engine, till you feel the car engage and you can release the clutch. You’ll feel it when you hit the sweet spot.”

Party sniggers, juvenile.

“Shut up,” says Jet, and sighs. “You’re not twelve anymore, are ya? Release the brake and hit the gas.”

“Eat a dick,” Party says casually, then stomps on the gas pedal. “Like that?”

“No, like—” The car shudders again, gears spinning. “No. Not like that at all. Kind of the opposite of that, in fact. That’s how you stall the car.”

“Fuck,” Party whines, dropping their hands. “Why’s it all so fuckin’  _ complicated _ ?”

“She’s temperamental.”

“She’s a car.”

Jet considers hitting his head against the dashboard. He thinks he probably would if he weren’t worried it would activate the finicky airbags. “Do you wanna learn how to drive stick or not, douchebag? Because I also promised your brother that I would teach him self-defense later, and I’m more than happy to cut this short.”

Party groans theatrically and slumps down in the seat. “No, no, it’s fine—I’m fine. Just.” They settle their hands on the wheel again. “What do I do now?”

“The clutch,” says Jet, struggling not to put his head in his hands and just give up. This is going to be a very long day. “You put your foot on the clutch.”

“Wait, fuck, we gotta start over?”

“You stalled the car, Party! Yeah, we gotta fucking start over.” Jet takes a deep breath and forces himself to calm down. “C’mon, back to neutral. We still have to get past first gear before next Halloween.”

Party manages to get the car to stall eight times within the first fifteen minutes. Jet figures that’s probably some sort of record. His poor car really doesn’t deserve this. It’s a shitty old Toyota, one of those models that lasts forever as long as you keep supplying it with oil and gasoline. The tires have been replaced more times than years Jet’s been alive. She’s a good car. She deserves better than Party’s godawful attempts at driving stick.

“Dude, did you completely destroy the fucking engine?” Jet whines, and Kobra gives Party an eloquent look, complete with raised eyebrows.

“Fuck off, I would never,” Party says, insulted.

Jet frowns. “Kinda seems like you just did.”

“Not you, I was talking to the Kid,” says Party. Kobra smirks from beneath the UV sunglasses he’s stolen from Show Pony’s collection of goods.

“He wasn’t talking back,” Jet points out, mulish. “You know it’s still fucking creepy that you two can do that?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” says Party lightly, the picture of innocence were it not for the devilish quality of their smile, and they pat Kobra casually on the head, dodging his retaliating punch. “Communication isn't creepy, Jettison.”

“It is when it’s you two,” Jet grumbles. “Kid, we gonna spar or not?”

“Yeah. Sorry,” Kobra says, scrambling to his feet. He disappears into the diner.

Party turns to Jet, eyes wide and sincere. “So, what am I doing wrong?”

“Fuck off,” says Jet, laughing, “we haven’t got all day, have we?” He rubs his hand over his face and tries to remember. “Okay. When you hit the gas, you gotta keep it steady. If the RPM goes too low, the car’s gonna stall. You’ll figure that out with practice.” Lots of practice, he doesn’t say. He thinks Party can probably figure that out on their own.

“Great,” Party mutters, aiming a petulant kick at the dented bumper. “Can’t fuckin’ wait.”

The addition of Jet Star also forces the two of them to address the last remaining pieces of their learned prejudice against the Zones and the people who live in them. They both know that it’ll help them to fit in more; Kobra is still uncomfortable with the word  _ killjoy _ , with the idea that someone could hear in his voice where he comes from. It shouldn’t matter, where he comes from. What should matter is where he is now.

They both know it isn’t all fun and games. There’s a certain feeling of invincibility that goes along with thinking you’re almost untouchable. Sheltered, unaware, naïve; the label isn’t important. They haven’t actually encountered any roaming drac swarms or trigger-happy crash queens who’d as soon ghost you as share your colors. The whole experience of living out in the desert still has vestiges of adventure clinging to the frame.

So they haven’t been brought down to earth yet; it shouldn’t matter. There shouldn’t be a rush to break the illusion. He wants it to fucking shatter around him. He wants to blow something up. He wants to bleach his hair.

The box of bleach has been sitting on the kitchen counter ever since the first swap meet, waiting, mocking him. He doesn’t want to do it to fit in, he thinks furiously. He doesn’t want to do it to catch up to Party, whose bright red hair is a badge of honor. He wants to do it for himself; he wants to do it because—whatever. It shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t fucking  _ matter _ .

They can’t find any running water for miles and miles. Jet drives, keeping the car steady while Party sticks various limbs out of the passenger side window and yells along with whatever loud banshee-scream songs comes shrieking out of the car radio, even when the signal fizzles and fades into more static than music.

Kobra breathes out slowly. The back window is rattling against the side of his head, hot from the sun.

They finally make it to a dilapidated cluster of buildings that could have been the remnants of a settlement several decades ago, and find an old supermarket, the aisles long since emptied of products. The bathrooms don’t have running water either, but there are a few wooden outhouses behind the building; most places don’t have running water, much less potable water. A few places have used generators to hook up to a pipe system—the Nest, the Paradise Motel, a few scattered clubs here and there, a rumored orphanage out to the east side of Zone Four run by someone called Gravel Gertie.

“Dude,” says Party. They’re tossing an empty Power Pup can in the air and trying to catch it, boots scuffing across the tiled supermarket floor. “You could totally bleach it and just not rinse for a while.”

“And have my hair fall out? No thanks,” Kobra says. Party fumbles the can and it clatters across the floor until it rolls into a shelf and stops.

Jet’s been walking up and down each aisle looking for something that could be useful. So far he’s managed to find a few towels, a terracotta gardening pot, a few slightly smushed packs of chewing gum, and a NERF gun. He scoops up the can and adds it to the pile of stuff in his arms. “We could always head over to the Nest. There’s a refill fridge right by there.”

“Sick,” Party says. “Let’s burn some rubber, killjoys.”

“I fucking hate you,” Jet says without malice, and slumps over towards the car.

The Nest is a single-story shack with spray-painted slats over most of the windows and a roof that’s settling steadily further into disrepair. The exterior is nondescript; old rubber tires are scattered throughout the scraggly tufts of coarse grass. Party climbs up on part of a decaying chassis, balancing on one leg and squinting against the glare of the sun.

“Water’s over here,” Jet says. There’s what looks like a pre-war industrial refrigerator set up around the side of the Nest, covered in colorful stickers and sticky notes. A stack of blank VHS tapes sits haphazardly next to the fridge.

The Nest is near the place everyone says DESTROYA was last seen. Scattered around the outside and cluttering up the inside of the Nest are all sorts of things that aren't supposed to exist:  an analog TV set with THE SANS BOX written on one side, collage-covered zines, colored chalk, scrap metal, a cooler of soft drinks, strings of fairy lights, duct tape in all sorts of colors, markers, an overstuffed orange-checkered couch, a lamp with a crinkled shade, scratched wood panels on the walls, muzzy green carpet, picture frames. A non-stop party where mom and dad never come home, Show Pony calls it.

The driving lessons continue. Party and Jet get trapped in Jet’s car during a sandstorm at one point and have to spend nearly an hour getting all the grit out of the engine before the car will work again. Party still sucks at driving stick, but they’re getting there.

They run into some irradiated animals—a group of rats tries to attack Kobra, and Party shoots them without even thinking about it. The first thing Show Pony says to them—not even pausing to ask if Kobra is okay—is, “You just fuckin’ wasted a good few fucking hours of sun charge on your zap, dusthead, that was a braindead move.” Party can feel tears prickling at the back of their eyes, but they know that if they cry then that would just be wasting water.

Although they can get some rare fresh food from the Paradise Motel, and there’s always Power Pup, there are also times when catching wild animals is a necessity. They eat lizards, rats, snakes, scorpions, rabbits, birds, even the occasional wild dog. The animals always have to be checked for signs of irradiation; besides the green eyes, some might have extra horns or overlarge teeth or extra limbs or forked tails or something like that. Something  _ off _ about them. They never eat the irradiated animals, just leave their corpses for the buzzards that circle high above.

They learn more about the culture, about stories and legends and traditions, about all the unspoken but important rules. Show Pony takes them to see the mailbox shrine (flowers left for the dead) that delivers letters to the dead and tells them about how the ghosts of lost loved ones never really leave the desert. It seems lonely, at first, not being able to leave. Then it seems like a comfort. Show Pony introduces them to zines, to shitty local bands, to spray paint. To causing a ruckus and leaving a mark. Making a deliberate mess. Most of what they learn comes from experiences, some more dangerous than others. Jet entertains them with fireside ghost stories of zonerunners who were dusted long ago along the same stretch of broken asphalt. The sand is full of ghosts. Party considers writing a letter—maybe to the mother they can’t truly remember, maybe to the Phoenix Witch herself, a private  _ hey what the fuck are you doing, messing with my dreams like that _ , but they never do.

Jet gets them proper weapons after a nasty incident involving a squabble with some sunmad zonerats. “Something better than the shitty basic ones Pony gave you to start off with,” he says, and gamely accepts Show Pony’s indignant punch to the shoulder.

Blasters are an important part of a developed persona, because without them you wouldn’t stand a second against a drac—or, worse, a crow—or even someone who’s desperate and hungry and doesn’t have anything to lose. The original blasters that had come from Show Pony had been cheap replicas of actual weapons, with limited ammunition and hi-thermo power instead of true laser fire. Drac’s blasters are known as  _ Individuals _ and they cost fifteen thousand carbons each because they’re individually designed to respond to their biogenetically enhanced fingerprinting system created by SCARECROW. In short, Jet explains, only the draculoid who was given the blaster in the first place should be able to fire the weapon.

“There’s ways to get around it, obviously,” he says. “But you’d have to either open the main core and redo the internal wiring, or literally cut off the drac’s hand to use like a prop. It’s not pretty, either way.”

Individuals are solar-powered, like most things that have their origins in Battery City; most things from the desert run on gasoline, some other non-renewable fuel, or batteries. Zone blasters—the ones from vending machines—run on double-As. The battery life is usually shitty. But the lasers are high enough quality to knock someone out with a single shot, no question about it.

“The better the tech, the better the actual laser itself,” Jet explains. The high-tech guns have enough thermal power to instantly cauterize a wound, so there’s no blood. That’s why getting shot by an Individual won’t make you bleed out, but a shit-quality zapper will give you a bad case of laser burn and an exit wound.

There are always non-thermal weapons, Jet points out. “Analog guns,” he calls them, pulling a face that Kobra thinks is hilarious. “Real bullets. Lead, steel, whatever. Kinda useless, but real fucking nasty to get hit with. You wanna stay away from those, especially if they’re all rusted up. One of the quickest ways to get yourself ghosted.”

The new weapons come from the vending machine near the Paradise Motel. The vending machines are scattered all throughout the Zones, haphazard, seemingly without rhyme or reason. They were put in place by Better Living Industries, who had originally intended them to be used by prospective settlements out in the desert, but that plan fell through after the Analog Wars and the Pig Bomb that destroyed most of the East Coast.

The vending machines work like 3D printers with an endless source: they’re essentially inexhaustible, and therefore a great resource. Better Living hasn’t bothered to try to remove the vending machines from the Zones; it would take too much effort to track down each one and cut off its power core, and Better Living Industries mostly doesn’t care about the Zones as long as no one tries to bother Battery City.

“The catch is supposed to be that you need a BL-ID card,” Jet says, looking smug, “but honestly, fuck that. We can hack the whitebox real simple.”

You’re supposed to have a BL-ID passcard to access the machines so that you can therefore be adequately charged for the items you purchase. There were vending machines in Battery City; Party remembers using their old BL-ID passcard to swipe for extra protein cubes on days when they were working late and needed the nutrition. Those vending machines provided different items—these have buttons that say AMMO and BATTERIES and H2O, Party remembers. Things that would be needed in the desert.

Jet reaches into the pocket of his cargo pants and pulls out something palm-sized. “Hey, Kobra,” he says casually. “Remember when I showed you those vid-screen games?” He flips the controller over to Kobra, who catches it awkwardly. “Take a look. That’s a Vend-a-Hack, it’s what we use to get into the machines. You hop the frequency and it thinks you’ve scanned a card, even though it’s just fake radio waves. Pretty shiny, huh?”

Kobra turns the Vend-a-Hack over in his hands. The device does look like an old video game controller, with the screen in the middle and two handles with buttons on the sides. The screen shows a blank calibrated graph.

“Push this button,” Jet says, pointing. Kobra pushes. The lines on the graph flicker and shift, and a moment later, the Vend-a-Hack beeps loudly. The dispenser tray on the vending machine pops open and something small and dark falls out. Jet scoops it off the ground, brushing off the granules of sand. “Batteries. Jazzy.”

“Awesome,” Kobra mutters. He looks back down at the Vend-a-Hack and starts playing with the frequency, trying to get it to work in different ways. He figures out pretty quickly that the intensity of the minor EMP the device is producing affects which item he’s getting out of the vending machine. If he hits the button that increases the EMP, he can fuck up the whole machine.

He’s fascinated by the whole process. He’s always been interested in figuring out how things work, how they look on the inside, how machines do what they do; the vending machines are no different. He doesn’t quite understand how the 3D printer can apparently make something out of nothing, but it’s still super cool, even if he doesn’t understand every single piece of it.

“The freq can bypass the identity verifier,” Jet’s saying; Kobra tears his focus away from the tantalizing joystick in his hands. “It thinks it’s reading a BL-ID card with infinite carbons, when really it’s being hit with radioactive pulses.”

Party opens their mouth eagerly, looking interested. “Your  _ mom _ was hit with radioactive pulses,” they say gleefully, kicking the side of the vending machine; their shoe bounces off the white metal.

“Whatever,” says Jet. “Kobra, can you get us some zaps?”

Kobra calibrates the frequency, points the Vend-a-Hack at the vending machine, and pushes the button. The machine rattles, then the tray pops open and two sightless white blasters slide out.

“Fuckin’ amazing, Kid,” Jet says, ruffling Kobra’s bleached hair affectionately. He scoops up the weapons and hands them over. “You can mess ’em up with spray paint and shit like that later, since you’re not dracs so you don’t need regulation blasters. C’mon, I’m gonna teach you how to shoot.”

Jet doesn’t start off by teaching them how to shoot. First he teaches them everything there is to know about the weapons, until Party is bored out of their skull and pining for a nap that lasts three goddamn half-lives. If they have to hear Jet say  _ strafe recoil compensation vent _ one more time, they’re going to fucking lose it.

“The blasters are powered by batteries—here,” Jet says, popping the grip open and sliding the battery pack out. “See? Empty. But thanks to Kobra, we have some extras, so—” He presses the new battery in until it clicks. “Boom. There’s also a fission-based core that’s powered by Plus, but it really only stabilizes the weapon, so you won’t need to replace it probably ever.”

Jet turns the blaster over, holding it out so that the side is visible. “See that little dent? That’s the transmitter. On an Individual, it’s gonna test for the right draculoid, the one that’s supposed to be holding it. If the signal doesn’t go through, the core doesn’t fire up. So it’s really no dice. But on these, they’re just average-civ, no problem. The transmitter’s mostly for show.”

Party unconvincingly turns a yawn into a gasp of awe. They get a  _ look _ from Jet for that.

“Okay,” says Jet. “I guess you know the basics. Point it at the target, look at the sight—the little bump on the end of the barrel—and pull the trigger. There’s really no wrong way to do this, it’s not difficult. Laser tech doesn’t have much of a kick, unless it’s  _ really _ shitty, so you shouldn’t have to worry about that either. Just don’t touch the barrel right after you fire, unless you wanna burn off a few fingers.”

“I like my fingers,” Party says. They pick up the blaster and aim it at the makeshift target—a stack of empty Power Pup cans arranged in a pyramid on top of various large rocks and an old wooden packing crate—and shift around, boots scuffing up dust. “What do I do with my other hand?”

“Use two hands to aim,” Jet says, distracted by trying to get Kobra to move his legs so he isn’t exposing his entire torso. “C’mon, Kobra, wider stance.”

“Could you  _ not _ do that with my brother while I’m still here? Thanks a bunch,” says Party, ignoring Kobra’s death glare, and pulls the trigger.

The resulting  _ zap! _ of the laser firing makes all three of them jump, even Jet, who’s heard it millions of times before. Party curses and drops the weapon, waving their hand to cool it off, hissing expletives under their breath while smoke curls from the barrel of the blaster lying in the dirt at their feet.

“You fucking said it was easy,” Party seethes, jabbing one finger at Jet, “you fuckin’ said there wasn’t a wrong way to do it!”

“Yeah, okay, I was wrong,” says Jet. He rubs his forehead and briefly contemplates giving up; he isn’t cut out to be a teacher. First the car and now this. “You . . . didn’t hit the target. Not even close.”

Kobra snickers, and Party whips around to scowl at him. “At least I’m fucking trying, fucker, not cozying up to—”

Jet coughs loudly. “Guys, c’mon. It takes practice. No one gets perfect in a single day. Now quit fucking arguing and stand still so I can make sure you don’t shoot your own eye out while tryna hit the fucking cans. Kobra,  _ wider stance _ . Party, don’t hold onto the handle like—no—yeah, like that. And fucking  _ relax _ , both of you.”

“Fuckin’ tyrant,” Party mutters, but they pick up the weapon again anyway.

It takes them both a while to get used to the loud  _ zap! _ of the laser when they pull the trigger. They knock the empty Power Pup cans off rocks for a while until Jet deems their aims to be acceptable, then walk back around to the front of the Paradise Motel to visit Tommy Chow Mein’s store for some celebratory dinner that isn’t canned dog food.

They run into Fun Ghoul a couple more times, at swap meets and gang divisions and occasionally nighttime neon-tinted parties and things like that (but not too many of those because he’s claustrophobic, even if none of them know about Ghoul’s claustrophobia); Party dislikes him the most, no matter what anybody says about Ghoul’s alleged reliability or strength of character or own personal history. Ghoul just pisses them off, for some reason.

“. . . firetruck redhead firecracker with a nose for trouble . . .”

“Hey, that’s you!” Kobra says, elbowing Party in the stomach. “He’s talking about you!”

“Fuck off,” Party mutters, elbowing him back, but there’s a grin threatening to take over their face, pulling at one side of their mouth. Kobra goes back to messing with the dials, trying to find a better signal, but the static is still loud and distorting. The frequent  _ KCHH _ sounds make it difficult to concentrate.

“. . . wasn’t another little zonerat killjoy in the . . . how to make somethin’ like that. Icon of the dustlands, really. Legends live forever, unlike us lonely little souls baking in the ashes of God’s firepit, so it . . . could try following the footsteps, but the sand-winds blow it all away after a little while. And as for the yin-side, tall and silent as he . . . charismatic about the duo, a real Bonnie and Clyde, destined to . . . firefight or other. Snake-bitten blondie with a bright red smile, that’s . . . static working overtime, so it’s time to pack up the lady and receive the high-sign from spectral tongues that . . . in the end times. This is . . . 2037. At the end of the world, it’ll all be about the music and what you make of . . . Defying, signing off.”

Party tilts their head to the side. “ _ That _ was him talking about  _ you _ , Kid.”

“Sure, whatever,” says Kobra, ducking his head.

Party hoots loudly. “He called you strong and silent! That makes you the brawn, and I’m the brains.”

“Fuck off, I’m the brains. And he said  _ tall _ and silent,” Kobra complains.

“You’re not the brains, fucker, I’m the brains—you’re the brawn, you can kick everyone’s asses while I talk their ears off.”

“So basically how it already is,” Kobra mutters, sidestepping Party’s sharp elbows.

“This is a theoretical superhero universe, there isn’t any ‘already is,’” says Party firmly. “And in that theoretical universe where we’re superheroes, you’d be the brawn, and I’m the motherfucking brains.”

Kobra snorts. “Dream on, I guess.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Party flaps a hand, unconcerned. “Hey, Pony, why’s the Doc never use our real names or anything? Seems kinda counterproductive, not to say anyone’s name.”

“Except his own,” Kobra says.

Show Pony considers this for a moment, chewing on their lower lip. “It ain’t always safe out here in the dustlands, sugar, ya know that as well as I do. Sometimes the static is a bit more scratchy than usual, sometimes the pipes are running a bit drier than before, sometimes the wind is kickin’ in from the wrong angle. It wouldn’t do for Mom an’ Dad to pick up our frequency, would it? Gotta keep it on the hidden track, killjoys, buried seven down. S’for your own protection.”

“But he  _ does _ use his own name.” Party frowns.

“D’s got his own p-files with Better Living that even I ain’t a part of, but that’s his tune to thread,” Show Pony says firmly. “The impression I got is that he’s being provocative by making it real obvious who he is. That he’s not gonna white-flag any of us but himself. That he’s gonna die with his mask on. That kinda shit.”

The second time they go to a show, it isn’t as pretty as the first one, and it isn’t a Mad Gear and the Missile Kid performance.

This one is during the day, out in the middle of Zone Two, in a literal hole in the ground known as The Bowl (it could probably be called a “crater”) that someone claims was originally caused by the explosion of a nuclear bomb. “One of the mini-shells from the Pig Bomb,” apparently.

The show is hosted by a group of wave heads, and the main attraction—the actual music—is by some band called Sarcasm & Irony, apparently a brother-and-sister duo that even Show Pony has never heard of before.

“Wannabe gearhead sun junkies,” Pony snorts dismissively, when Party asks if they’re planning to attend the performance. “They’ve all got a crush on Mad Gear and are hoping they’ll be the next Missile Kid.”

“Sounds like Party,” Kobra teases, “Party’s a gearhead!” and Party elbows him in the ribs repeatedly until he yelps and gets them in a headlock, laughing.

So it’s just the two of them that end up going to the show. They’ve both adjusted to the higher temperatures enough that even an event that takes place in the middle of the day isn’t a deterrent, just a challenge.

Kobra wears a pair of dark sunglasses that he says make him look mysterious and that Party says make him look ridiculous, especially with his newly blond hair.

Party can’t find anything suitable at first—there are all sorts of masks, some that cover half the face and some that cover all of it, some that are covered in feathers or sequins or just brightly colored paint, some decorated to look like animals, some garnished with tiny bones or antlers or tufts of fur.

Finally they find a box of basic masks, the kind that only cover the eyes, in simple colors. The masks are piled one on top of another, haphazard, not sorted or arranged by color or anything else.

Party reaches into the box. Their fingers are tingling.

They pull out a yellow mask, and something curls up unpleasantly in their stomach.

The mask has little blue triangles around the eyes. It’s simple, nothing too extravagant, but it’s clean. There aren’t any scrapes or scuff marks. There aren’t any cracks in the plastic. It almost looks new.

Kobra is giving them a confused expression, like he’s worried that they’re going to start freaking out over a box of dress-up masks. “Everything milkshake, dude? We gotta go when the motor gets hot, c’mon.”

There isn’t anything to do but to stand up and keep holding onto the mask. “I’m taking this one,” Party says, and pulls the mask down over their eyes.

It feels good. That same weird shivery sort of  _ good _ , like putting on the dress or dyeing their hair. It feels dangerous and fast, tension running along the edge of a wire, waiting to tip forwards into a chasm of emptiness and sound.

The trip to The Bowl doesn’t take long.

Party feels like they’re on fire from the moment they down into the stirred-up dust of the crater, feeling the low thrum of bass shaking the sand in tandem with the rhythm of boots pounding on the dust.

Colored lights flash from the skeleton structure set up overhead, even in the bright sunlight of midday, and the crowd is already riled up into a frenzy even though the band hasn’t even come on yet; they’re shouting all together so that individual words get lost amongst the wild noise, hands waving, stretched up towards the stage that’s set on the edge of the crater, inches from falling forwards into the pit.

Party wants to stand on the edge of that stage and look down at the crowd. They want to dive headfirst into the roiling mass of bodies and not emerge until someone’s bleeding. They want to scream until they’re hoarse, feel the voice ripped from their lungs, heart thumping wildly along with the music.

God damn, Party Poison thinks, grinning so wide it feels like their skull could split open. The show hasn’t even properly  _ started _ yet. They’re just standing there, on the rim of The Bowl, drinking it all in.

From this distance, the view distorted by rippling heat waves, everything looks sparkly and exciting. There’s a makeshift bar set up around the edge of the crater, with a few bored-looking joys slumped over the plastic countertop, drinks in hand. The heat makes everything feel supercharged.

“C’mon,” Party mutters, touching two fingers to Kobra’s wrist. They push their way towards the cluster of people until they reach the bar.

There’s a sign on the front of the bar that labels it as MEGA MOON’S THROTTLE BAR, along with a list of prices. The bartender, a green-haired woman with serpentine tattoos curling around her bare arms, sets two empty plastic shot glasses in front of them. “Whatcha lookin’ for, killjoys?”

Party frowns. “How’d ya know we were killjoys?”

She winks and leans her elbows on the plastic countertop conspiratorially. There’s sweat pearling all along her forehead. “I listen to the Death-Doctor’s radio show, that’s how. That red hair is real hard to mistake, sunshine. Even with that mask on, s’ easy enough to recognize.”

“Oh,” says Party, glancing over at Kobra, who looks impassive as usual. “Shiny. In that case, we’ll take a couple of, uh, whatever you think’s best for this sorta scene.”

“Dealer’s choice, I like that,” she says, and blows them a kiss once she finishes pouring their drinks. “Here ya go, killjoys, two Slam Chasers. That’ll be fifteen c’s each. I’d say ya don’t hafta pay, but I got a reputation to maintain amongst this kinda crowd.”

“Yeah, I gotcha,” Party says, and hands over the money.

The drink tastes refreshingly cool, with a burning aftertaste that makes them choke. Party wipes their mouth, grimacing at Kobra, who just raises his eyebrows and takes another careful sip of his own drink.

“Fuck off,” Party mumbles, turning away from Kobra’s smug smirk, and crashes right into someone. The drink sloshes all over their shirt, and Party jumps back with a hiss, swiping uselessly at their soaked clothing. “Shit!”

Kobra makes a choked-off noise, and Party looks up swiftly.

The newcomer doesn’t seem to have noticed the two of them standing there. There’s a serene, blissed-out smile on her face, and her eyes are clouded over, milky-white. She sways slightly on the spot, tugging at the hem of her tatty, filthy tank top, staring at something in the sky over their heads.

Her skin looks—

Party sucks in a breath without meaning to. Her skin looks fucking  _ wrecked _ , covered in sunburns, peeling off in cracked pieces. Her hair is patchy, only attached to her skull in frayed clumps. Burns are spotted up and down her arms and her bare legs, raw and pink and oozing; she looks emaciated, decaying, drying up from the heat, like she’s been left out in the sun for several weeks too long.

Wave heads, Party thinks distantly. Sun junkies.

She moves sluggishly, like a zombie; they both hurry out of her way so she doesn’t lurch into them. She staggers forwards, then stumbles a little as she makes her way back down the sloping curve of The Bowl into the pit, where the sun’s rays are the hottest, where the music is washing over everything, heat waves rising and scorching every bit of flesh.

Party thinks of sitting on an uncomfortable chair in a library a million years ago, surrounded by books, wondering how sand would affect zombies. It turns out it doesn’t seem to be bothering them at all.

Now that they’re looking more closely, it’s easy to distinguish the wave heads from the other attendees—the wave heads move like they’re pushing through something syrupy and heavy, heads lolling as they try to find places to soak up the most of the heat and radiation. Their skin makes it obvious, Party thinks, and feels suddenly sick at the thought of sizzling and burning flesh. The sticky stain on their shirt from where they’d spilled their drink has already dried in the heat, stiff and tacky.

Kobra wipes off his brow, his mouth curving downwards slightly. It’s loud enough this close to the crater that only Party can hear him when he speaks. “Guess I see why Pony didn’t want us to go, I suppose.”

“Fuck it,” Party mumbles, finishing the rest of their drink in one go. The aftertaste is even worse the second time, caustic and acidic. “Fuckin’ overbearing fucker, we can go to a fuckin’ show if we fuckin’ wanna go, fuck.”

Kobra opens his mouth to say something else, but then suddenly someone’s hand is on Party’s arm, and Party flinches automatically, thinking of the woman’s cracked and burned skin and glassy eyes.

“Aw, sweetheart, I’m no wavie, now,” the newcomer slurs, leaning in close to Party with a glittery smile that Party realizes belatedly is due to the sparkling lipstick smeared across his mouth. “S’a wavie party, though, and you look fuckin’ rosy-pure steada sunmad. Sure this is the right scene for ya?”

“It’s a party, ain’t it,” Party shoots back in response, raising their voice enough to be heard over the screams and bass, “what’s a party without a little poison, huh?”

They get another smile for that, sharp and gleaming bright. “I like you,” the newcomer says abruptly, still leaning in and swaying slightly, buoyed by the music. “Fuck the wavies, who needs ’em! Hey, sweetheart, you dance, right? Yeah? Come on!”

Party glances back at Kobra, who just shrugs with half a smile on his lips, sunglasses still hiding his eyes, and makes a shooing gesture with one hand.

And then an arm is wrapped around Party’s waist and the two of them are moving, pushing through the crowd, down into the pit and towards a group of people who seem to be handing out more drinks and—pills, Party realizes with a sudden jolt, small and bright-colored. They breathe in sharply through their nose and try to will away the sudden terror.

That glittery, shimmering smile is enough of a distraction, though, at least for the present moment.

“Poison and pills,” he purrs into Party’s ear, dropping a quick kiss onto their neck, “c’mon, toss one back and come dance with me, sweetheart, you’re too pretty to be standing all alone.”

And Party doesn’t think, doesn’t ponder, doesn’t rationalize it, just holds out a hand and takes the bright pink pill when it’s offered.

Someone pushes a cup of something into their hand, and they swallow; the liquid tastes sickly-sweet, almost artificial, sharp and sticky on their tongue.

The drink leaves a sugary aftertaste that hasn’t quite faded when the pill hits and everything abruptly just sort of— _ sharpens _ .

It feels—it feels—

And Party has to catch their breath. It feels like being stabbed in the throat, but it’s intoxicating, it’s addictive.

It feels so  _ much _ .

If the Battery City pills dulled the senses and numbed the mind, the Zone pills do the exact opposite. Party feels like they could run and run and never stop, if they decided to start running; they barely register that there’s still someone draped across them until they’re being pulled into the middle of the crush of bodies, twisting and grinding together to the howls of the music on the stage. The sound is pulsing through their ears as though it’s alive and breathing, through the walls of the crater, straight down into the ground like it could keep going and going until it drives right into the molten heart of the earth itself.

Clarity is so bright, so sharp, that it almost blurs out of focus with the force of intensity.

Everything is in bright Technicolor, lucid and sharp-edged.

Party comes back down to earth dazedly when the two of them are both laughing and stumbling over each other, unwilling to stop clinging to one another for long enough to carve a safe path through the churning pit of people, sinuous and endless.

They stagger to the edge of The Bowl, then they’re in behind one of the buildings ringing the surface, in an alley with the faint echo of the flickering lights from inside scattering against the ground, and then they’re kissing, messy and hot, pressed against the stone.

The sparkly lipstick turns out to taste sweet and tangy when rubbed against their mouth, and there’s glitter getting everywhere.

Party shoves with their whole body, trying to bite down on something solid, and gets shoved right back; they end up on their knees, still pushing forwards, wanting more, more,  _ more _ , wanting to taste. They slide one hand down in between their legs to give something to grind against and use the other to hold themself in place against the wall.

The air is hot and dry, and the sun is a dull red blur in the sky above The Bowl.

Party gets one hand on the front of the other joy’s pants and tugs at the zipper until it finally gives.

“Fuck, yeah, keep that mask on,” says the glitter-mouthed joy, and slumps back against the wall of the building. Party grins up at the shimmer above them, sharp and feral. “Yeah, sweetheart, use your mouth, c’mon.”

Party hums in agreement and tries to remember the way Show Pony did this same sort of thing. Everything that normally would feel good now feels even better with the addition of the Zone drugs coursing through their system; they almost don’t need to touch their own dick to get off. Their skin feels like it’s been electrified from the inside.

The two of them are just finishing up, making out against the wall and grinning into each other’s mouths, messy and careless and coming down slowly off the high from sex and drugs and the steady thrum of the music, when there’s a sudden small explosion and the screams from the pit change from adrenaline-fueled to something dangerous.

Party pulls away and thinks,  _ Kobra _ .

There’s a moment where everything is frozen.

Then everything is moving again and they’re running back down into the center of The Bowl, pulling their blaster out and shouting Kobra’s name desperately, and there’s another terrifying heart-stopping moment where there’s no answer, but then Kobra shouts something back and then they crash into each other and Party grabs their brother and for a minute they just cling to each other, hearts beating, still alive, still breathing.

And then Kobra says, “ _ Ow _ , shit,” and Party realizes he’s wounded—his shoulder is bleeding, and there’s a tear in his shirt, and his face looks like someone scratched at it with their fingernails, sharp and bloody. “You have glitter on your teeth, what did you even  _ do _ ,” he says grumpily, and Party presses their head against Kobra’s shoulder, just holding on for a moment longer.

What had happened was that some of the wave heads started giving Kobra shit for—being at the show? having a solar-powered weapon? not joining them completely? and roughed him up a bit. Kobra fought back as best he could, but when more of them piled on him, he tried to use his blaster.

He ended up missing his intended target and hitting one of the spark showers on the stage, which caused the explosion that Party had heard. It was enough of a distraction that Kobra was able to slip away mostly unharmed in the aftermath.

“So whatever, I guess Pony might’ve been right after all,” Party mumbles into Kobra’s shoulder, and Kobra groans loudly, but he’s shaking slightly with suppressed laughter, so Party knows it’s all going to be okay. They’re both going to be okay.

A lot more of the glamour of the desert is shattered, after that incident. The thing Party wants most in the world is to keep Kobra safe, and they fucked  _ that _ up.

It stings.

But overall things are going well. Jet Star has been helping them a lot now that he’s staying in the diner with them, of course.

Kobra looks much happier now that it’s been revealed that Jet is alive, and that’s also good. He and Jet spend a lot of time together, working on fixing up cars or practicing made-up karate moves or just talking about nothing and everything. Party usually takes advantage of those periods of time to go to find Show Pony; sometimes they’ll hook up and sometimes they’ll just talk or listen to music without speaking, but it’s always a comfort just to be there with someone else.

It’s raining and they’re back in the Lobby except it can’t be the Lobby because they’re still out in the desert, the sun hot and bright in the sky and the sand shifting languidly beneath the soles of their boots. There are walls all around, surrounding them, reflective and flickering like the electric backdrops installed around the interior edges of the city. The rain is pouring down like the heavens have opened up their insides, but none of the drops even come close to touching them. They’re clean.

The Phoenix Witch is standing next to them. She’s holding a vibrant purple umbrella, the handle carved to look like a snake’s head.

We could have died, Party thinks furiously, glaring at her. What would you have done if we got ghosted at The Bowl, huh? Dragged us back up from hell? Let us stay rotting?

She tips her head back, looking up as though she can see right through the purple plastic of her umbrella up to the skies above.  _ Well _ , she says.  _ I do remember telling you that killjoys never die as long as you walk in my shadow _ .

Fuck that, I don’t wanna walk in anybody’s shadow but my own, Party thinks. They’re not afraid of her; she hasn’t done anything but wander moodily about and spout vague prophecies. She sounds like somebody’s grandmother, not a death deity.

_ As long as there is light, there is shadow _ . She sounds almost amused.

Yeah, you wanna explain basic physics to me too? What goes up must come motherfucking down?

The Phoenix Witch sighs, and then they’re not in the Lobby because they can’t be in the Lobby but the spray-painted walls of the Circuit are spinning around them, dizzying and euphoric. Words are streaming from every artifice, clinging to their clothes, pulling and pushing at their skin—KEEP RUNNING! DON’T YOU EVER STOP! KEEP MOVING TOWARDS THE FUTURE! THE FUTURE IS BULLETPROOF! WE WILL BE HAPPY IN THE AFTERMATH! FUCK BLI! GOD CAN’T HEAR YOU! THEY BELIEVE THAT WE ARE THE ENEMY! The words scroll across their vision like text on a television screen.

They’re not in the Lobby and they’re not in the Circuit because the desert is still collapsing around them, and they’re standing on a hill made of rotting flesh and decaying limbs and the stench is overpowering.

Party bends over and vomits a thin trickle of bile. It burns their throat like something acidic, and the smell of death is still there.

Battery City is visible in the distance the same way it always is. It’s shimmering slightly, quivering and trembling, covered in a translucent dome like a snow globe that’s just been shaken.


	3. Chapter 3

Then another party at the Hyper Thrust gets broken up by a group of dracs.

One moment they’re dancing and the next moment people are screaming and shoving towards the exits desperately. The loud static sound of blasters firing makes the hair on the back of Party’s neck stand on end.

They don’t mean to freak out.

It’s just—

Something about seeing the black masks with their sharp teeth and the skull-white weapons makes memories flash back and the danger becomes suddenly much more real, thick and tangible.

They have to shove away a drac’s scrabbling hands to get to Kobra. Their heart is stuck in their throat, tight and painful.

Their first thought is that Better Living has found them both and is going to take them back to the city with its white-walled rooms and its sedatives and separate the two of them permanently and medicate them until they can’t remember anything, not even each other.

Kobra grabs onto them, one hand on either side of their face so they have to look at him, but all Party can see is blood pouring from their brother’s mouth, dark and thick and sticky. They don’t know if it’s real or not.

Flies are buzzing all around Kobra’s head; he doesn’t try to swat them away. His eyes are sightless, clouded over with white film.

Party tries to shove away the clutching hands of the thing that’s replaced their brother, but it clings on even tighter, hissing. “ _ Kobra _ ,” Party screams, the word ripped raggedly from their throat, torn to the empty air.

It’s Jet who finally calms them down.

Kobra’s been holding onto Party so they can’t run away. He’s held on even after they stopped struggling and just went limp, all the fight draining out of their bones.

There’s a red streak smeared on their chin from where they’d bitten their lip until it bled.

Jet kneels down next to the two of them and nods reassuringly at Kobra, then turns to Party and holds his hands out slowly, palms raised, showing that he isn’t armed.

Party doesn’t look up from their boots, but they breathe in shakily and relax slightly.

Jet explains calmly that it’s common to see dracs just hanging out casually in the first few Zones, and that it doesn’t necessarily mean serious trouble—dracs kind of just roam about when they’re not looking for some big-name hotshot or other, and they only occasionally try to ghost people, if they haven’t met their quotas for that month or whatever.

“Mostly, they’re not a threat unless you mess with them first. Sometimes even  _ that _ isn’t a real problem, if you buy ’em a drink or two,” Jet says, shrugging. “Usually it’ll all turn out milkshake.”

The real danger comes when Better Living Industries sends one of the Exterminators out into the Zones. That means they’re hunting someone in particular.

“You ever see under a drac’s mask?” asks Jet, and Party shakes their head, thinking about a curious little Battery City kid who wondered what would happen if a draculoid had to take a shower, if there was even anything underneath, if their masks were just extensions of their faces, or—“There’s a rumor, out here in the desert, that the masks suck away your souls. That if the dracs were alive once, they sure aren’t anymore. That they’re not even human anymore.”

“That’s fuckin’ creepy, man,” Party finally says, suddenly thrilled to the bone.

It’s also kind of awesome, even just as a concept. Soul-sucking masks? It’s too stereotypically exaggerated an extension of Better Living’s usual style to be true, but—maybe.

Just maybe.

Party still throws a fit, hates everything there is to hate about the Zones for a brief period of time, then calms down and recovers, albeit still warily. No one got hurt this time, but that only covers  _ this  _ time—it could always get worse, and it most likely will.

The pleasant way to think about it is that they’ll be more prepared for when everything goes to shit.

The truth is that they probably won’t be.

hings move along a bit more quickly after that.

For all the reassurances that dracs rarely mess with zonerunners unless provoked or on a mission, Show Pony bursts in the door to the diner one afternoon and shouts, “Boots on, dust devils, we gotta motor real quick—pigs are back on the farm, more of ’em than we’d like to butcher today, so we’re heading out with the Doc in the Jeep.”

They get ready quickly.

Kobra is excited, full of adrenaline and bravado; he grabs his blaster with a look in his eyes like he wants to take on the swarm himself, until Show Pony just turns to him and says, “If you wanna get in a clap with over a dozen carloads of dracs, then go ahead and try, but I won’t be the one to write your name on the mailbox, Kid.” Kobra cools off after that, subdued and sulky.

Show Pony drives erratically and eagerly, with Doctor Death-Defying in shotgun and the others in the back.

Party hangs onto the railing and tries to squint into the thick dust trail kicked up by the spinning wheels. They can almost see the faint plumes of dust and exhaust in the distance that would signify the dracs’ cars.

“The tire tracks in the sand mean trouble,” Show Pony yells over the noise of the wind blowing in their faces. “Mom and Dad are tryna catch us sneakin’ out!”

The motel is kind of a neutral spot in neutral territory, so it’s safe—dracs rarely come out this far, and even if they do, they know not to mess with neutral areas. The zonerunners don’t want Better Living Industries slaughtering them all, and Better Living doesn’t want a full-scale rebellion against Battery City.

Not everyone works together, but they all respect neutral territory.

Relative civility hinges on it.

“S’ a vacation, of sorts,” says Pony, as they all hurry into the motel.

They leave the Jeep in the back, hopefully far enough out of sight.

The weather sirens go off again while they’re holed up in the motel, waiting for the dracs to clear out. Party and Kobra are used to the noise by now, but it’s still unnerving; the eerie wailing of the sirens isn’t a welcome sound, no matter where they are. The pounding of rain on the motel roof is soothing, though, even if the ceiling leaks in several places; it’s a shame they didn’t bring any water purifiers, so they could drink.

They have to stay on the ground floor because Doctor Death-Defying’s wheelchair can’t get up the stairs, and the elevators haven’t worked in decades. So they settle down uneasily in the lounge that used to be a breakfast bar and try to occupy themselves.

It’s easiest to tell stories while they’re waiting for something else to happen. Legends about the Phoenix Witch, about the world before the bombs, about the original rebels whose fight to leave the city birthed the Zones.

Doctor Death-Defying doesn’t like to talk about what the world was like before it got bombed all to hell, but Show Pony has a million theories, each more extravagant and fantastic than the last.

Story-telling manages to keep them all entertained for a good long while.

They also talk about the concept of what lies beyond the Belt, beyond the edge of Zone Six, where the desert goes all polka-dotty and uncertain. No one really knows for sure what’s out there past where the border starts to blur into nothing—nobody who’s ventured that far has ever returned, so it could be either paradise or hell—but one of the original killjoys, the legendary Mike Milligram, is rumored to have walked into the desert past Zone Six and vanished into the sun.

“So, he was a wave head, basically,” Kobra mutters under his breath, and Party cracks up. Kobra still harbors a bit of a grudge.

Party doesn’t have any love for the wave heads either, but they can understand sort of where they’re coming from—an addiction is an addiction, whether it’s to pills or booze or the way the burn of the sun’s radiation makes you feel when it’s peeling off your skin.

Of course, there are other stories about what lurks beyond the edge of the world—more civilizations like Battery City. The ocean. Monsters. Nothing but radiation-soaked ruins. Paradise full of freedom and happiness.

There are fireside tales of a hypothetical Zone Seven, that the Belt isn’t truly as impassible as it’s been lionized to be, but it’s all talk.

Party’s favorite story is one that claims that Doctor Death-Defying himself comes from beyond the edge of the world, that he earned his own name because of it. They’ve all learned that life expectancy shortens drastically in the Zones, and that the likelihood of being ghosted goes up the longer you fly your colors, if heatstroke or illness or wild animals don’t get you first. That’s rough to take, although Kobra points out that they walked into the desert knowing they could die at any moment, so anything they can get is better than nothing. Still, it’s weird to think of someone like Doctor Death-Defying as  _ old _ . Doctor Death-Defying doesn’t seem like he could ever die.

Except then they fuck up the estimate of how long they would have to wait in the motel, and when they get back to the diner, there are still three dracs there, rummaging through their stuff and causing trouble. The dracs look up at the sound of the Jeep’s engine and pull out their blasters in unison.

It’s the first clap Party and Kobra have experienced firsthand—Jet Star shoots two of the dracs almost immediately, without even hesitating, but Party gets the third one almost on accident, when they take aim on autopilot and don’t expect to hit anything but empty air but the drac jerks backwards and crumples without a sound.

Party almost freaks out then, but there isn’t time to spare.

Things have to go on anyway—the world doesn’t stop to let you catch your breath when you need it. Things don’t work like that in the desert.

There isn’t any blood. Somehow, that’s almost worse, because it doesn’t feel real.

Flies cloud around the bodies of the dead dracs, their eyes glittering with infinite points of reflection.

Probably it isn’t real.

Not entirely.

Jet Star notices the way that Party’s just staring blankly at the bodies on the ground, and says sympathetically, “It helps not to think of them as people, since they don’t see us as more than their next payload, or a buncha walking dead.”

“You  _ told _ me they were decent, you shithead,” says Party, who is reasonably upset over this turn of events. So few things are consistent now that they’re in the Zones, and it’s a blow every time something that they thought was certain turns out to be fluctuating.

“Mostly they are,” says Jet, trying to be at least moderately mollifying instead of just grim and realistic. “Things are confusing out here, dumbass, you better get used to it.”

Party kicks the ground sullenly and whines, “I liked you better in the city when you were boring and had a stupid crush on my brother, cause at least then you weren’t a  _ complete _ dick.”

Jet just rolls his eyes and lets Party be stubborn if they want to be stubborn; he knows they’ll get over it pretty quickly anyway.

It’s easier to move on when there aren’t any other available options.

They’re all wary by the time they get back home—they’ve been thinking of the diner as  _ home _ , which is probably a bad idea. The diner has already been relatively well-established as neutral territory, particularly since it’s connected so closely to Doctor Death-Defying’s current hidey-hole, but no one’s really colonized it until Party and Kobra and Jet move in.

“We should throw a housewarming party,” Show Pony decides; the idea is so completely and utterly ridiculous that they all crack up even just thinking about it.

They have some dehydrated compacted protein cubes for dinner (potable water is far too precious to waste on rehydrating food), along with the usual cans of Power Pup, and it’s close enough to a celebration to be satisfying.

It’s about this point when they decide to take back the name  _ killjoys _ .

All three of them were born in the city, and they stopped taking the pills, so it’s apt enough of a label; besides, Party says happily, it’s a pretty fucking fabulous name to wear, one shiny fucking banner to march underneath.

“My favorite fucking killjoy triple act,” says Show Pony triumphantly, bumping fists with Jet and draping an arm around Kobra’s shoulders and pressing a quick kiss to the side of Party’s mouth. “Fuckin’ milkshake, alla you.”

Show Pony stops by sometimes on their usual trips all throughout the Zones, gathering lost kids and carrying information and gossip from settlement to settlement. The three of them visit the radio station pretty frequently, partially because it’s so close by and also because it’s nice to know that there’s someone else out there.

They have a radio in the diner, as well as a couple of CBs, of course.

Most people have some sort of technology that can be used to pick up radio frequencies, and these are mostly tuned in to static day and night, waiting for a broadcast, waiting for the music.

They also visit if for no other reason than to let Kobra mess around a bit with all the records that Doctor Death-Defying plays. Doctor Death-Defying complains whenever he sees them, but he still seems to have a special fondness for Kobra that he doesn’t quite have for the rest of them.

octor Death-Defying is not the only radio DJ in the Zones. At first it kind of seemed like he was, because he’s the oldest and also the most ubiquitous, but there are others— scattered throughout the desert, bringing music when Doctor Death-Defying is hiding or on the run or just too busy to keep the radio alive.

The first of these people that they meet is Agent Cherri Cola.

Nobody really knows where Cherri Cola is from—he could be eighteen or forty, he’s never said, but the general rumor is that he and Tommy Chow Mein go way back. They knew each other before everything went to shit, it’s said; that’s why neither of them wants to talk about the past. Younger joys love fantasizing about what the world must have been like, but if you lived through it, it’s not the most popular topic of conversation. The apocalypse is a lot more fun if it didn’t leave radiation-saturated rubble on  _ your _ front lawn.

They meet Cherri Cola around the time Party Poison stops going out to parties and clubs and concerts almost every night. Party doesn’t really get hooked on the Zone pills, not the same way they were hooked on the Better Living pills in the city, but it’s easy to get addicted to some extent to the enhanced emotions that the Zone pills give.

It’s dangerous and intoxicating and absolutely thrilling.

Party has fallen into a sort of tradition of getting dressed up and going out and taking pill after pill, sometimes hooking up with someone they meet at that night’s event and returning to the diner at some point the next day or so.

It stops when Party and Kobra get into an actual fight about it.

They haven’t really fought like this before, but this is the real thing—a shouting match, yelling back and forth,  _ I’m trying to protect you, asshole! _ and  _ well, I’m trying to protect you, too! _ back and forth.

The only reason it doesn’t turn into a fistfight is because Kobra storms out of the room, then almost immediately turns around and comes back and in and says, you know what, fuck this and fuck you too.

The worst part of it is that he looks frightened far more than he looks furious, and Party can’t help but to think of—well. The time when they had overdosed on the combination of pills and alcohol and Kobra had held them together for just long enough for the two of them to escape the city.

Party stops going out so much, after that. It’s understandable to be interested in the partying scene, since everything is so new and bright and exciting, but they stop once Kobra makes it clear that he doesn’t like the habit because he worries about them.

Party doesn’t want Kobra to have to worry, not ever again.

Agent Cherri Cola merely wanders into the diner one day while Show Pony happens to be there, helping Party and Kobra to repaint some of the walls in bright colors. Party’s been getting back into art by spray painting murals of swirling, illogical colors all over everything they can get their hands on, and it’s tentative and hesitant most of the time but the end result is real fucking satisfying.

As Doctor Death-Defying likes to say, art is the weapon against life as a symptom, as a side effect. Art is taking back your identity.

Pony notices the newcomer first—old habits die hard, and Pony’s aren’t even close to being on their last legs—and then Kobra looks up sharply, instantly on alert, hand going to his blaster almost instinctively. Pony is almost unbearably proud.

The newcomer just spreads his hands and smiles, slow and easy. “Hey now, is that kinda welcome any way to treat an old friend? Ladyboy, call off your attack dog before he starts nipping at my ankles. Look back on the dead eyes opened wide, don’t even bother trying to program a poetry machine into something beyond lyrical for fear it’ll become hysterical—did you miss me?”

“Cherri,” says Show Pony, absolutely delighted, and throws themself at the newcomer, clinging to his neck. “Thought you had got yourself pixelated, we didn’t hear from you in so many miles—did you talk to Chimp and Newsie yet? They’ll be falling all over you, honeydoll, you know they will. An’ the Doc?”

“I came to you first,” says Cherri. “Introduce me to your hangers-on and we can tune in, dial the four-one-one from the weatherman, groove around for a spell.”

There are introductions all around—it’s explained that Cherri Cola is another one of the mysterious DJs that fill in the static gaps between Doctor Death-Defying’s broadcasts. “Cherri here is our most poetic DJ,” Show Pony says proudly, ruffling Cherri’s sandy hair. “Couldn’t last a minute without his words in my veins, and that’s the truth.”

Doctor Death-Defying doesn’t have the same elated response to Cherri Cola’s sudden reappearance. He takes one look at Cherri and huffs, “Some jabroni with a juke thinks he’s slick. Hah!” and goes right back to messing with the record collection, flicking through vinyl sheets to look for the next track.

“Don’t blame me if my ghetto blasters can’t compare to your shiny-shiny-shiny spinnerets, Doc,” says Cherri Cola with easy familiarity. But suddenly Doctor Death-Defying is actually smiling, and Cherri hugs him roughly, pounding him on the back when Doctor Death-Defying grumbles about  _ fuckin’ motorbabies tryna get an old man dusted before his time _ , and the mood shifts abruptly into something almost nostalgic.

“Cherri and us, we go  _ way _ back,” Pony explains, when Party and Kobra give them identical confused looks. Really, Show Pony doesn’t know why nobody thinks those two are related—sure they don’t look all that alike on the surface, but they make the same grumpy faces. “He’s been there since ground zero, since the first cannon fodder got spit out into the sand. But if you kids wanna know more, you gotta take that up with El Capo over here, cause he still calls the shots and holds the cards.”

Cherri Cola explains that he’s really only in the area for a little while, but he definitely will spend the rest of the day catching up with old friends—he wants to go visit Tommy Chow Mein’s store first, and Show Pony hides a snicker behind their hand, even as Party and Kobra get those twin looks of confusion on their faces again.

They probably don’t know why anyone would  _ want _ to visit Tommy, if not to buy something, Pony thinks, and tries valiantly not to laugh.

Sometimes it’s just so good to see old friends.

They tag along with Cherri Cola—not to visit Tommy Chow Mein, but when he asks Doctor Death-Defying if he’s got the proper coords for someone called News-A-GoGo’s latest location. Doctor Death-Defying confirms that he does, and so Show Pony piles everyone into the Jeep and they take off, music streaming from the speakers and everyone singing along as loud as they want.

When the song ends, Doctor Death-Defying’s voice comes on the air, and he says, “Now, I’m not one to subscribe to rumors or back issues of  _ Shiny _ —and if I did, that’s my own business—but the word in the trees is that everyone’s favorite secret agent man is back in town, and he’s hitting up old comrades. A little chickadee told me that he’s still just as self-described and self-defined as always, so I’ll let him take the waves for a joyride when he gets back from his latest excursion into the unforgiving jungle. Until that day comes, I’ll bless the sands with a song that sums it all up. Remember to stay out of the sun, watch your back, and sharpen your knives. Today is MONTH DAY YEAR TK. Here’s the traffic for all you tumbleweeds out there—”

The music starts playing once more,  _ there’s a man who leads a life of danger _ , and Cherri Cola smiles again.

“Good to hear that voice again after so long,” he says quietly. “It’s been too many miles and too few smiles since I heard anyone talk who had their colors hoisted up high and dry the way the good old Doctor does.”

“He’s one shiny motherfucker, sure is one of a kind,” Pony agrees, pressing down firmly on the accelerator, “and that ain’t gonna change till the fucking sky crashes, Cherri, you know it as well as I do.”

“I’ve been hoping,” says Cherri Cola, and he and Pony share a look.

Party chooses this moment to blurt out abruptly, “Hey, weren’t you the guy in the photo who got to use the fucking ka _ tan _ as?”

News-A-GoGo’s current hideaway is situated in the depths of what used to be a water filtration plant, right next to one of the colossal towers that house the weather sirens.

Any water in the plant has long since dried up, but there’s still a touch of nervousness running through Kobra’s fingertips when Show Pony lifts up the grate that leads underground. It’s easy to get used to being out in the open, underneath the sun and sky, in the Zones.

He hasn’t been underground since he and Party left the city.

There are rungs set into the side of the tunnel, and they climb for what seems like hours until their feet finally touch ground.

Kobra stumbles a little letting go of the ladder, his fingers stiff and head spinning, and Cherri Cola sets a gentle hand on his elbow to steady him. “Thanks,” Kobra mutters, feeling his face heat up. He hurries to follow Party, who seems to have no such qualms about being underground—they’re practically hanging off Show Pony’s arm, asking a million questions a minute.

They walk for even longer, passing multiple gates that Show Pony or Cherri Cola types some passcode into each time, until finally they get to a solid metal door that’s marked with a yellow radiation symbol.

Kobra swallows nervously, but Pony just marches up to the door and knocks solidly on it.

A voice comes from inside, scratchy and overlaid with static. “State your colors or I’ll bring eighty solid volts down on each of your heads before you can even think about trying to draw your phasers.”

“Aw, Newsie,” Show Pony croons, “if that ain’t the warmest welcome I’ve got from you yet, I’ll chew my own legs off and give up the rollers for good. I’ve got a special surprise for you—it’s real fuckin’ milkshake, with a  _ cherry _ on top. C’mon, lemme in.”

There’s a pause. “Show Pony? That you out there?”

“The one and only,” Pony beams. “Open the cell door for the bright old sunshine to come streaming in, darlin’.”

“S’bout the worst way to get me to do anything,” the voice grumbles, but the words are somehow fond. “Stand back so you don’t get crushed.”

Kobra doesn’t know what he was expecting, but it’s definitely not what he sees when the heavy door slides back into the wall with a groan of metal against concrete.

The room is lit up by a myriad of screens, flashing and blinking in different colors, some of them displaying nothing but television static and some of them clearly showing surveillance footage of the Zones—he can see the diner in one of them, Joshua trees dotted around it. There’s a curtain dividing the room, and from behind it comes a person with bright green hair and a gray hazmat suit, holding something that looks like the intestines of a Vend-a-Hack.

Kobra doesn’t know how to stop staring.

News-A-GoGo runs a television broadcast from underground—from the literal underground, hidden in the sewage tunnels and water treatment plants. The footage shown on the screens is drawn from surveillance from Better Living’s drones; News-A-GoGo managed to tap into the frequency of the drones (which are small enough to be mistaken for insects) and redirected the flow of footage to their own station. They have a straight radio to Doctor Death-Defying to let him know if any new danger shows up—“And a DJ of my own on hand for when the waves get a bit rough to ride alone,” News-A-GoGo says, shuffling over to the chair set up in front of the wall of screens.

Another head pops around the curtain. “Heard my freq out here,” says the newcomer curiously, sticking her tongue between her teeth. “Sodapop, give your lonely little sister a hug or two, wontcha? Thought you’d been ghosted, you piece of shit, we hadn’t heard from you since Old Man Rocketboots and Sascha went sky-high the  _ last _ time! What were you thinking, honeybear, goin’ all Area 51 on us like that?”

DJ Hot Chimp looks like the exact opposite of News-A-GoGo, with her bright blonde hair and pink lipstick, but when she hugs Cherri Cola affectionately, the resemblance between the two siblings is striking—they have the same eyes and the same slow smile, although Cherri’s has considerably less lipstick.

Party nudges Kobra with a wicked grin. “Newsie, my brother here’s bout two steps away from proposing to ya, he’s a real tech brain, so could you do us all a favor and come up with somethin’ entertaining to put him out of his misery?”

Kobra elbows Party as hard as he can in the ribs in retribution, and hisses, “Shut  _ up _ , asshole,” but Party is too busy laughing their head off like an actual child to pay much attention to anything else.

DJ Hot Chimp laughs too, at least, and she presses a quick kiss to News-A-GoGo’s cheek as she pulls Cherri Cola past the curtain, probably to catch up even further.

Kobra can’t imagine what it must be like, to have been separated like that—he doesn’t think he would be able to last that long without seeing Party.

He doesn’t want to find out if he could.

News-A-GoGo just raises their eyebrows and beckons Kobra closer with one rubber-gloved hand, the one not still holding the mess of wires and circuits. “Here, Kid, c’mere and I’ll show you how to hack into a Better Living droid. You got a Vend-a-Hack yet?”

“Yeah,” says Kobra, and nods and hurries over to the wall of glowing screens. The one nearest to him is running lines of code, scrolling endlessly. He thinks—he thinks Party might have been able to understand it better, since Party was the one with the official data job, but he gets the vague implication. The code looks like it’s some sort of programming, probably intended for a television broadcast of some sort. “There’s a vending machine right by the diner where we’re—”

“First rule, Kid, never let anyone know where you’ve gone to ground,” News-A-GoGo cuts him off sharply, and Kobra freezes, ashamed and confused. “Least, not unless you want a whole fucking parade of dracs to come swarming down on you within the hour. Better Living is  _ always _ watching and  _ always _ listening, and the only reason they haven’t blown us all straight to hell yet is because they find us amusing to play with. Now. Sit down, and I’ll show you how to crack the basic servers.”

Kobra and News-A-GoGo connect seamlessly after that, through some unspoken wavelength and understanding that drives Party absolutely crazy trying to figure it out. Kobra doesn’t think he could spend the rest of his life underground—he’s become accustomed to seeing the sun blazing above him—but he can understand the appeal of News-A-GoGo’s situation.

It’s comforting, in a way, to be sitting there in that dark room, surrounded by nothing but lit-up screens and television static.

A couple of days later, when Kobra's third fucking zap gets smashed during an altercation with some fuckugly dracs, he takes it apart the way News-A-GoGo showed him and attaches it to an old leather glove from Show Pony's costume box. His wrist is hurting if he moves it the wrong way, so  the glove will have a second job as a wrist brace, for additional support.

Kobra brings the glove to work on when he and Party head over to  Cherri’s station. The walls are all marked up with a bunch of note scraps and doodles:  _we've only lived to get radical! xoxo 4 ever + ever_ ; and _wish you were here <3_; all sorts of sketches and shit. A neon red-orange sign proclaims that the station is ON AIR.

"Low, chemical twins," says Cherri Cola, waving when Kobra's and Party's boots clunk across the floor.  “I’ve been running for a long time with these smiles and holes in my veins, so it's sure nice to have some company.”

Cherri Cola invites Kobra to run up the wires on the roof so the station can go live for dinner time, and when they get back, Party is standing out in front of the diner with their hands on their hips and a scowl on their face, looking for all the world like a parent confronting a delinquent teenager after a night of truancy.

"Welcome back, kiddos," Party says, and stomps back inside.

Kobra rolls his eyes. Party's too overbearing, sometimes. It's not like _he_ was the one causing trouble for fucking no reason.

“You have to tell me if you’re goin’ somewhere!”

“I  _ did _ tell you!” Kobra yells back.

“Well, you hafta tell me  _ where _ !”

“No I don’t!”

“Yes you  _ do _ !”

“Fuck you,” Kobra shouts, “you’re not my  _ mom _ , because she’s  _ dead _ , so stop fucking trying to replace her! I don’t need you to look out for me every fucking second of every fucking minute of every fucking hour, Party fucking  _ Poison _ , I don’t  _ want _ you to, I just want you to  _ leave me alone _ !”

Party opens their mouth like they’re going to say something else, then closes it wordlessly. They stare for a few moments, boggling at Kobra like they’ve never seen him before, then their shoulders slump. “You’re just angry, Kid, you don’t mean that.”

“YES I DO,” Kobra says, “I wish you would stop treating me like I’m a fucking BABY, because I’m NOT YOUR RESPONSIBILITY.”

“You—” Party swallows. “Kobra, I—I’m not—”

“Not fucking  _ listening to me _ ,” Kobra hisses, venomous. “I can take care of myself, fucker, so just fucking STOP IT.”

“You’re my  _ brother _ ,” says Party, and their voice breaks. They hesitate, looking down at the tops of their boots, fingers tangling in the hem of their shirt. “You’re always gonna be my responsibility. I can’t fucking change that. I don’t  _ wanna _ fucking change that. You’re gonna be stuck with me until the end of the world, honey.”

Kobra bites his lip and looks away.

Party steps closer, reaching up one tentative hand to touch his cheek, feather-light. “I was scared. I was so fucking terrified. I didn’t know what had happened, I couldn’t stop thinking of all the worst things that coulda come out of nowhere. Fuck, Kid, what would I do without you?”

“Have no one to complain to?” says Kobra, but his words waver. “Jet would curb stomp your dumb face after two hours of listening to that stupid whining.”

“I can’t do this without you,” Party says, and stumbles forwards into Kobra’s arms, “I can’t do anything without you.” Kobra exhales shakily and hugs them as tightly as he can, pressing his face into their dirty red hair, just holding on for a moment. He doesn't want to move when they finally let him go.

Cherri Cola stays with them for the rest of the day, even after they’ve returned to the station to meet up with Doctor Death-Defying. Cherri delivers his own broadcast through the old channel as promised, then signs off and motions for Kobra to put on some music from the collection.

The decision is left to Kobra. He flips through the shelves of records—Ramones, the Stooges, Bowie, the Clash, Queen, Nirvana, Pink Floyd, Jimi Hendrix, Springsteen, the Struts, Blur, Radiohead, the Smiths, the Cure, T-Rex, Misfits, Social Distortion, MC5, Runaways, endless names he recognizes from Jet’s bootleg audio collection, ages ago. There are bands he doesn’t recognize, as well—AKA Loretta, Vacation Adventure Society, the Cause and Effect, Wizard Needs Food, Bad Words, The Love You Long Times, Richard Ai Yai Yai, Massive/Awesome, Cold Dead Hands. There are even a few Mad Gear and the Missile Kid records, including what looks like a demo with “bad dream tutorials” scribbled across it in metallic gold Sharpie.

He hesitates for a moment, then hurries over to the shelf and grabs the very first record he’d ever put underneath the needle the very first time he’d ever met Doctor Death-Defying. It feels comfortable in his hands, familiar. He starts the record from the beginning,  _ they’re forming in a straight line _ , and Cherri gives him that quiet smile.

Kobra is fascinated by the way Cherri Cola handles the microphone and the turntable. It’s almost loving, like a caress; it’s alluring. Kobra sits on the table and kicks his legs and watches, and he and Cherri talk for a while about music and about life in the desert and about all sorts of things, and long before Kobra wants it to be over, Cherri signs off the broadcast and flips the switch to static and stands up.

The MGMK demo record is still sitting on the table. Cherri picks it up and studies it. “Bad dream tutorials,” he says, sounding almost fond. “For those of us who do need assistance in that area, I suppose.”

Party must be more observant than anyone gives them credit for, really, because they fold their arms decisively and say, “Look, Cherri, I know you say you hafta go, but—if you wanted to stay, there’s a space left open. We’re still lookin’ for all the puzzle pieces to make up a crew, ya know.”

“And four’s the best number,” Kobra blurts out, “we’ve got me and Party and Jet, but—we could use someone like you, we really could.”

Kobra desperately wants Cherri Cola to join their crew, but Cherri is much more of a loner, and declines with a sad sort of smile and a quiet promise that they’ll meet again anyway, in this life or the next or whatever’s in between.

Before he leaves, though, he writes something down on a scrap of paper and gives it to Kobra. When Kobra unfolds the crumpled paper, there’s a string of meaningless numbers written on it.

A radio frequency, Show Pony explains later. It’s the equivalent of giving someone your number, really—giving them your frequency.

Kobra shoves the paper in his pocket and doesn’t say anything about it until the next time he and Party and Show Pony are all in the Jeep heading over to visit Jet Star, and Kobra turns on the radio and sets it to Cherri’s frequency.

It’s just—it’s just that—Party has Show Pony and all their other new friends, and Jet Star still seems so far away even now that he’s technically in the same place, and just—it’s just—maybe he’s a little lonely or something, maybe he just wanted a friend or whatever.

_ See ya soon, songbird _ , he thinks morosely. It’s what Doctor Death-Defying had said when Cherri left.

The departure of Cherri Cola doesn’t hurt in the same way it would if he lost Party or Jet someone else close to him, but it still burns somewhere deep in his chest when he looks at the tiny fragment of paper clutched in his fist. He keeps the radio he’d fixed up tuned to that frequency, even though he knows it’s a waste of batteries to leave it turned on constantly; he doesn’t care. It’s worth it when the next broadcast comes through, just to hear Cherri’s soft voice again.

“Reliability,” Cherri Cola says, his voice thin and distorted through the heavy waves of static, “we come through every day for those we care about,” and Party looks away so that Kobra can have a moment to pretend that he isn’t almost crying.

Unbeknownst to anyone in the desert, Better Living’s attitude towards the Zones changes once Party Poison is created and identified. Before, they were content to live parallel lives, occasionally sending a team of Exterminators out into the desert to remind the zonerunners who held the real power in the equation, but now the patrols have multiplied manifold and the hand of god has started to grip tighter and tighter. Korse is head of the SCARECROW division of Exterminators, and he has what seems to be a vendetta that runs deeper than just professional duty, despite everything written down in every inch of Better Living Industries policy that screams for a mastery of emotionless control and a distinct lack of personal involvement. Party Poison is a glittering lure dangled just out of reach.

Party Poison, unbeknownst to anyone in the city, is slouched in the middle of an old rubber truck tire as part of a semi circle around a rusting and decaying chassis, drinking something sweet and sticky from the Nest's cooler of soft drinks. Cherri's managed to rustle up some ice, even though carbonation is a thing of the past, and they're playing Ghostslingers 8 while Kobra and Jet are messing around with some blank VHS tapes.

Party turns over the plastic case, contemplating. “Looks like it’s got . . . huh. Aliens. Explosions. Uh, Brad Pitt.” They flip the case back over and pop it open. “Sounds badass, yeah?”

They’ve all noticed that the numbers of dracs in the Zones have increased, but they don’t understand the significance yet. They’ve managed so far to get by on luck and a full tank, scrambling into the Jeep and driving pedal to the metal until the danger has passed. Besides, they’ve been distracted by everything new that they encounter.

Jet takes them to the main hub club of the Nest, which is run by a woman known as Birdie, as well as some other local zonerunners (Party thinks the name is hilarious, and makes endless jokes about Birdie flyin' the coop). The interior of the Nest is mostly populated by little kids, sand pups and kids of ghosted zonerunners and younger killjoys and the like, any kid who needs a place to stay and maybe some friends while they get used to growing up in the desert.

Kobra doesn’t seem all that interested in interacting much with the kids, but Jet apparently visits the place frequently enough that Birdie greets him with a friendly smile and a mug full of some liquid that turns out to be cactus juice. Party tries some out of curiosity, then almost spits the mouthful back out immediately—they decide after that incident that cactus juice is completely disgusting. They somehow manage to steadfastly ignore Kobra when he cracks up and makes fun of them.

Party isn’t terribly interested in the kids either at first, but then they run into a group of sand pups who are working on painting something on one of the inner walls of the Nest, which is far more intriguing.

The paint is getting everywhere, and the picture itself doesn’t look like anything coherent, but nobody seems to mind. It’s messy and awesome and completely creative. There are colors everywhere, all over the wall and the kids’ clothes and hands; they don’t have paint brushes, just a few jars of color and some cans of spray paint.

There are glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to the ceiling, and ribbons made from electrical caution tape wrapped around the banister.

The entire thing is so markedly different from Party’s previous experiences with art—the monochrome statues and solid blocks of dull color on canvas—that it’s confusing, but not in the least unpleasant. Party even helps the kids out a little and gets paint all over themself as a result.

It’s worth it. It’s so incredibly worth it.

Birdie thanks them later. She’s holding a baby in her arms, wrapped in what looks like an old denim jacket; she’d explained earlier that he’d been found after a group of dracs had ghosted his parents. There had been a lot more of the lonely kids, she’d said, now that more dracs had decided to start lurking around.

“Good job getting them to trust ya, that bunch has been trouble since they found each other,” she says fondly, gazing over at where the kids are now in a paint fight. “Jet’s been a great help, of course, but he can’t stay always. And besides, he’s never been the most artistically inclined.”

“Nah, he’s more of a gears and grease kinda guy,” says Party, grinning despite everything. Jet can complain later.

Things are okay for a while. The three of them go to some more Zone supply exchanges and market setups that Jet Star is really into, and Party manages to wrangle some spray paint, green and purple. They use most of the green to repaint the diner, but there’s plenty of the purple left over to swirl around with no particular design in mind, just experimenting. Kobra paints his name on his blaster with the last of the green, which is a good idea, so Party “borrows” some of Show Pony’s glitter collection and mixes it with the purple. They spray-paint  _ PARTY POISON _ on the side in shimmering letters, then sprinkle the glitter over the words.

Even Show Pony says the finished weapon looks  _ real fuckin’ shiny, sugar! _ once they get over the glitter theft part of the incident.

Party also sketches some rough designs of costumes and buildings and murals. They always end up scrapping them—using the paper for something else—in the end. Paper is a luxury, out in the desert; it wouldn’t do to waste on ideas that will go nowhere.

But overall, they’re all doing well and they’re all adjusting and they’re all happy.

It’s weird to think about, Party muses. Happiness didn’t seem like the sort of thing that was attainable, before. The absence of emotion didn’t equal positive emotion. But now it’s almost a given, and they’re all together, laughing and smiling and enjoying themselves. Even on the bad days, even when the nightmares continue, they’re happy.

MAYBE ANOTHER NIGHTMARE, says the enormous fucking colossus of metal. KEEP RUNNING! DON’T SLOW DOWN TO LOOK OVER YOUR SHOULDER! DON’T TURN YOUR HEAD OR YOU’LL EXPOSE YOUR THROAT AND THEY’LL BITE DOWN ON YOUR JUGULAR!

Party rolls their eyes. Oh cool, more vampire metaphors. Classic.

Things are going fine until they run into Korse.

They’ve been told that the way things usually work is that the dracs mostly mind their own business unless someone is foolish enough to pick a fight with them. It’s not that it isn’t true, it’s just—Show Pony and the others are still trying to keep the worst of the information from the two of them, and even sometimes from Jet Star, because last time dracs messed with them Party almost broke down completely.

Party knows that they’re fucked up. They know that Kobra is too. To hear Show Pony tell it, everyone in the desert is fucked up in their own way.

That doesn’t make it much easier to take.

The dreams seem to have a particular fondness for making Kobra claw his own eyes out while Party can’t do anything but watch helplessly until their throat is raw from screaming. Sometimes Kobra crushes his eyeballs in his fists, and sometimes he bites down on them, breaking the thin film over the pupil and letting blood and fluids dribble down his chin.

Sometimes he has fangs, sharpened teeth with serrated edges, which he uses to gnaw at his own limbs. Sometimes he’s just a scared little kid with wide and terrified eyes, holding a blaster against his head, unable to hear when Party screams and screams for him not to pull the trigger.

But Jet Star tells them or Show Pony tells them or they overhear it on one of Doctor Death-Defying’s radio broadcasts that there have been a lot more crows sighted swarming all throughout the first few Zones in the time since—well, since Party and Kobra turned up in the area, really. It might not be laid out that explicitly, but Party, with their fantastic fucking guilt complex, feels horribly like it’s maybe their fault.

And of course, more crows will only lead to top-level Exterminators crawling all around in the desert.

Which is a warning sign leading to much worse things, because dracs might only ghost you if you pick a fight with them or if they need desperately to fill some sort of quota, but exxies will fuck you up first and ask questions never.

If they don’t ghost you right on sight, they’ll tie you up and drag you back into the city to be force-fed into Better Living’s special little pet project, the rehabilitation-slash-torture program that they supplement with captured zonerunners.

There’s a rumor Party heard somewhere that Fun Ghoul himself was once caught by one of the exxies and was taken into the city and had to be eventually smuggled out by some juvie halls and that’s one of the reasons he hates city-born joys so much.

But that’s just gossip, and besides, Party still hates Fun Ghoul, remember?  _ right _ ?

(According to Kobra, Party is spectacularly bad at separating tension from sexual tension, somehow. It’s a special talent of theirs.)

Thinking about Exterminators makes them think about Korse, and then they feel even  _ more _ guilty. Obviously no one really knows the whole truth about what happened back in the city, and Party sure isn’t telling anyone.

The worst of it is that nothing really happened.

Party knows they shouldn’t feel as damn guilty as they do, but fuck it, they have to keep Kobra away from Better Living Industries and from everything else that lurks within the city.

But they run into Korse.

By this point, both Party and Kobra know how to aim a blaster well enough to hold their own against a group of dracs—who are kind of sluggish at the worst of times and little more than zombies at the best, which doesn’t take away from the legend that putting on a draculoid’s mask will steal away your soul and that means that the Phoenix Witch will never be able to guide you on. It’s one of the reasons that masks so frequently get put in the mailbox after someone gets ghosted—giving gifts of personal belongings to the mailbox in hope that the Witch will find them and be able to use them to help guide a soul a little closer to home.

The more the Witch understands about the soul in question, then the easier she can lead it to rest, and the way she learns this is through those things that meant something. And nothing is more tied to personal identity than masks or jackets or even blasters, the things that keep you alive.

Party doesn’t know how to feel about the concept of the Phoenix Witch.

Sometimes they think she’s probably real, but then again, most of the rest of the fucked-up scenarios inside their head aren’t real at all, so it isn’t easy to determine what’s a falsehood and what isn’t.

They all kind of knew that some sort of collision was inevitable, but it’s not something you’re ever really prepared for until it happens.

Jet Star has a motorcycle that’s been all tricked out so it can do some jazzy shit like shoot flames out the exhaust pipe, which is a feature Party desperately wants to use in action, and they have Show Pony’s Jeep to boot. And they’re pretty much set with the safe houses, what with the diner and the motel and being as close as they are with Doctor Death-Defying.

If worst comes to worst, Party thinks, Kobra can go hole up with News-A-GoGo, because no one would ever find him there, not until the fucking sun crashes into the earth.

So they’re close enough to prepared, at least physically, for when something happens.

But when it does, it isn’t even a big dramatic encounter, like Party was kind of expecting—it’s just the three of them walking out of Tommy Chow Mein’s store with more supplies and heading towards the car Jet Star had taken from the mechanic’s shop for the occasion, and then there’s a low purr of an engine in the distance that doesn’t sound too friendly, and then a squadron of pure white cars with the trademark Better Living Industries smile insignia on the side—one, two, and three—are pulling up out of nowhere and Korse himself is stepping out of the lead car with a bone-white fucking blaster in his hand and everything kind of stops feeling solid for several agonizingly long seconds.

“Miss me?” says Korse, and smiles like he’s the motherfucking hero.

The first thing that Party Poison zeroes in on is that Korse looks like he’s aged ten years in the past several months—which isn’t alleviated any by the fact that he’s actually  _ shaved his fucking head _ —and Party wants, suddenly and nonsensically, to mock him for it somehow, but they can’t get their mouth to work so that any words will come out.

It feels like it should be a comic. But in the comic books, the heroes are always galvanized into motion, killing the villains at the very last second with some hidden power. Party doesn’t feel like that sort of hero.

“Hardly,” Kobra says with a dangerous sneer, and Party doesn’t even realize at first that he’s responding to what Korse had said. Everything feels slow-motion, underwater, moving through ripples of terror and shock.

Kobra starts to reach for his blaster, but Korse moves faster; his hand shoots out and fastens around Kobra’s wrist, twisting. The weapon falls into the dirt, and Kobra’s knees buckle, his face tight with pain. Korse places the heel of his boot on Kobra’s blaster and grinds down in the same motion as he bends Kobra’s wrist to the side.

“Let him go, bastard!” Jet yells, moving towards Kobra, grabbing for him, steadying him.

Korse’s hand twitches—just a fraction, an infinitesimal movement, a finger shifting towards the trigger of his own weapon, and everything is a blur after that.

It feels like—

The whole world goes on autopilot.

Party grabs for their purple blaster and starts shooting at the approaching dracs; out of the corner of their vision they can see when Jet gets hit in the shoulder with a crackle of static electricity and stumbles but stays standing and Party gets grabbed around the waist and goes down hard but scrambles back up again as Kobra, weaponless, kicks the drac in the face and the force of the blow almost tears off its mask when its head snaps back.

No one really knows what happens if you take a drac’s mask off while the drac is still alive—only once they’re already dead—but it can’t be anything good.

Party thinks about hours and hours of Kobra and Jet practicing hand-to-hand combat in the dust behind the diner, and feels terribly, horribly shaken.

The drac is lying beside them, collapsed like a marionette with its strings snapped.

There’s nothing else to do but to get back to their feet and get back into the fray.

Korse doesn’t even move away from his car until Party gets back up. Then, as if someone flipped a switch and allowed him to move, he stalks into the middle of the fight, where Party is trying to kick the drac’s blaster away while they two of them are grappling for the weapon, and shoves them apart. Party staggers back, reeling slightly, and Korse’s hand closes around their throat.

He’s wearing gloves.

Somehow, it’s suddenly the only detail that matters.

Party doesn’t even think to fight back at first, just freezes completely, mind going blank with sheer terror. A part of them is screaming about how a while ago this sort of thing would have been their most secret fantasy come true, just in kind of a different setting.

Korse doesn’t even look angry or vengeful—but not loving or kind, either, just emotionless. And Party doesn’t know what to do.

It doesn’t feel like it used to when they were working together. It doesn’t even feel like it did in the dreams.

It feels fucked up and terrifying.

Korse hisses, “Why did you  _ run _ ,” and his fingers dig into the hollow at the base of Party’s throat, cutting off their air, and Party recovers enough to start struggling wildly, trying to breathe and pushing weakly at Korse’s grip.

The hold tightens, and Party feels the ground drop away in a dizzy swoop as Korse almost lifts them bodily into the air; they kick at the ground, trying to pull away.

Faintly and too far away, Party can hear Kobra shouting something, but they can’t focus on anything that’s not the pressure tight on their throat and the abject panic flooding through them. Everything is frozen in stasis, Korse’s teeth bared and eyes hollowed and hand tightening its iron grip and Party can’t—

They can’t fucking  _ breathe _ .

Colors are creeping into the edges of their vision, spotty and distorted, warped like an old pre-war photograph. Like television static, like SMPTE color bars.

Korse’s eyes are black. Slick like oil, poisonous like gasoline.

Party feels like they’re just the match waiting for a spark so that the whole thing can go up in flames.

Kobra is still yelling in the distance—something that sounds like  _ get down! _ but it’s hard to make out the words. Korse’s face is swimming in front of their eyes.

Party opens their mouth again to try to suck in more air, and then there’s the sudden, muted sound of an explosion and a sharp bright burst of light and heat, like a miniature supernova detonating, and Party comes back to consciousness lying on their back in the dirt.

It takes a moment to clear their head enough to take stock of the situation.

One of the dracs is crumpled on the ground next to them, neck twisted at an unnatural angle, a thin trickle of blood pooling in the sand.

There are scorch marks on the ground, like something got blown sky-high right next to them.

The sky is flickering and black. As their vision clears, it turns into clouds of smoke and falling dust.

Party can still feel the heat, and when they manage to roll onto their side to see what’s caused it, two of the three sleek white cars are—somewhere. The third is awash with flames.

It isn’t much of a car anymore, just a crumbling metal skeleton.

Party tries to say something, to call out for Kobra, but no words come out.

The others are still standing, somehow, even if Jet Star looks barely two seconds from collapsing. There’s a third figure with them, shorter than the other two, looking towards the fire—Party thinks, oh you mother _ fuck _ er.

They’re trying to brace themself for the fight to continue, but Korse doesn’t shoot Party, or send the rest of the dracs out to finish them off, just turns around and walks towards—nothing.

He flickers a little, like a mirage caught in a heat wave, and then he’s gone.

He could have never been there in the first place, if not for the bruises on Party’s throat and the tightness in their chest.

Possibly it isn’t real.

Kobra kneels down and gets an arm around Party and helps them stand up. Party shakes their head to try to clear it, but that only makes the headache worsen, so they settle for rubbing their face against Kobra’s shoulder and biting down hard on their tongue to keep from moaning in pain.

“We need to get Party to a doctor or somewhere else where we can get patched up,” Kobra says. His voice is the only clear thing in the entire world. The explosion must have been rigged right next to Korse’s car, or at least what’s left of it. “Korse was—he—”

Jet Star is holding onto his shoulder; there isn’t any blood, since the heat from the laser technology cauterized the entry wound, but it looks like the blast left a nasty electrical burn, blackened around the edges. The top half of his jacket sleeve is ripped and frayed like something with claws went apeshit trying to get through to his shoulder, and the skin underneath is bright pink and shiny.

“C’mon,” says Kobra roughly, and helps Party stumble towards Jet’s car.

He gets Party into the backseat with some maneuvering, then hesitates; Jet Star’s been teaching them both how to drive, but Party always had more of an aptitude for that part of it.

Kobra prefers taking cars apart and figuring out what makes them work. Party just likes to go as fast as possible while ignoring the consequences.

“Ghoul can drive,” Jet Star says, distracted, sliding into the shotgun seat with a wince as his injured shoulder bashes against the door, “he’s been a mechanic before anyway—s’cause he’s small enough to get under the cars,” he adds, ignoring Ghoul’s sudden look of indignation. “I trust him enough to get us at least to a safe house.”

Kobra still looks somewhat skeptical, but he climbs obligingly into the backseat with Party, who’s doing their level best to glare murderously at Fun Ghoul and failing pretty spectacularly since they can barely keep their eyes open.

“Aw, thanks,” says Ghoul, pretending to blush and fan himself. “Letting me get my hands all up in one of your precious ladies here, don’t know how I could thank you, really.”

“Just get your ass in the car,” Jet groans, and Ghoul salutes him when he hops into the driver’s seat.

Kobra gently brushes his fingertips over the bruises covering Party’s neck, and Party shudders at the touch; the marks on their skin are clearly visible as bright red imprints of fingers closing around their throat. “S’okay, we’re gonna be golden,” he whispers, and Party relaxes a little, hiding their face against Kobra’s legs.

“It was thanks to Ghoul that we made it out at all, or we’d be dust on the road right now,” Jet Star points out, slumping down in the seat a little more, still holding his shoulder. It was really only a little explosion, but it must have made all the difference in the world, since there isn’t a better explanation for why Korse just—left.

“I was in the area, just getting some stuff from Chow Mein,” Ghoul mutters. He doesn’t look at any of them while he turns the ignition and the car shudders to life. “S’no trouble.”

“Yeah, but still. Thanks,” Kobra adds. He thinks about making Party thank Ghoul as well, but Party is still semi-delirious and breathing harshly, so he doesn’t bother.

It probably isn’t a big deal. It probably shouldn’t be a big deal.

Kobra is more focused on not letting his brother stop breathing.

None of them say anything else until Ghoul stops the car in front of the motel. Kobra still has Party’s head resting on his lap, running his fingers through dirty red hair.

Jet Star climbs out first, grunting when he has to move his arm. “God damn,” he says appreciatively, and winces. “That’s gonna sting even worse later, fuck. I can feel it already.”

The motel doesn’t have any running water and hasn’t in years, but it has proper beds and it has bathrooms with real showers and bathtubs that you could fill up with water if you found enough, and it’s on neutral territory. There haven’t been dracs sniffing around the motel with any sort of intent for as long as anyone living can remember, so it’s probably safe enough for now, but Kobra still keeps one hand on his blaster and the other around Party’s waist to keep them both moving forwards. tk.

He knows they can’t ever be too careful.

They get inside and start cleaning themselves up pretty quickly. Jet heads straight for one of the rooms and tears up some bedsheets to make into bandages for his shoulder. He makes a face when he rips the sheets into strips; the fabric is covered in dust and full of sand like everything else in the desert.

Kobra manages to get Party into one of the rooms with a queen-sized bed that isn’t rotting too badly. Party curls up on the bed and doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, until Kobra sits down next to them. Then Party leans into the touch, rubbing two fingers over Kobra’s sprained wrist. Kobra hisses sharply at the pain, but just the physical contact seems to lessen how much it hurts.

He stays there and strokes Party’s hair until they finally fall asleep, still clutching at his wrist with soot-stained fingers. The pain comes back in a rush when Kobra carefully frees his hand; his head spins with the sudden weight of it.

“Fucking fuck,” he breathes, tears sparking behind his eyes. Party must be a great fucking analgesic.

Jet is sitting on what would have been the receptionist’s desk in the downstairs lobby when Kobra eventually makes his way back down the stairs, clinging to the railing and fighting back whimpers of pain. “Hey, Kid,” he says, lifting his uninjured hand in greeting. “You gonna be good?”

“Shiny,” says Kobra vaguely. “Party’s asleep, for now. How’s the shoulder?”

“Gonna hurt like a motherfucker for a good long while,” Jet admits. “Still got off easy, though, all things considered,” he adds. They somehow all managed to walk out of the firefight still breathing, and fucking  _ Korse _ had shown up, so that’s a pretty good piece of luck, at the end of it all.

“Yeah,” Kobra agrees, flexing his fingers. He glances over at Ghoul, who’s draped across one of the moldering couches in the lobby, picking idly at the dirt and dried blood underneath his fingernails. “Ghoul, you planning to spend the night here?”

Ghoul looks up and shrugs. “Not like I got anywhere better to be,” he mutters, and looks down again.

Kobra exchanges a look with Jet Star, who shrugs—a clear  _ I don’t know, do whatever you think is best _ . “Okay,” says Kobra, “great. I’m gonna make sure none of the shit from Chow Mein’s got blown up or whatever, then. Yell if you need me.”

None of the supplies are irreparably damaged, thankfully, but when Kobra gingerly lifts his blaster in his unhurt hand, the grip uncomfortable and horribly awkward, and pulls the trigger, nothing happens. There’s a clicking noise, but the weapon doesn’t fire, just sits there in his hand.

“Shit,” says Kobra. He clumsily slides the blaster back into its holster at his belt, resolved to figure out what happened to it later. The memory of Korse’s fingers twisting his hand into an unnatural position, gripping the barrel of his gun and tugging him forwards, flashes behind his eyes.

The food is slightly singed, and the other supplies (water, more contact lenses, and several pads of paper) are covered in dust and ash, but otherwise fine. Kobra is infinitely grateful that the explosives were set off with the intention of creating a diversion instead of a disaster—a flare instead of a stick of dynamite. Kobra has heard about Ghoul’s demo skills as well as witnessed them firsthand, and he knows Ghoul could have chosen to send them all rocketing sky-high along with the drac swarm, no prisoners and no survivors.

It doesn’t take that much to blow something up, whether it’s napalm or gasoline or lighter fluid, and Ghoul knows the methodology inside and out.

Party’s leather motorcycle gloves are still in the car, stuffed into the central console; Kobra yanks them out and carefully pulls one over his right hand, ignoring the flashes of pain as his muscles spasm at the movement and pressure. It won’t be as effective as a proper wrist brace, but it’ll have to do for the moment; there isn’t anything better. Possibly Jet might have some arnica tablets or something in his med kit, but that’s inside with Jet himself, and Kobra doesn’t want to have to ask for it. He could get Party to ask for him, because Party always knows what he needs, but Party is unconscious and Kobra is on his own.

He feels horribly unprepared knowing his blaster isn’t working, but hopefully he could bluff for long enough to handle any potential threat. Kobra scouts around the motel a few times just to make sure there isn’t anything even vaguely dangerous in sight. There isn’t; satisfied, he heads back inside.

Jet is gone, presumably in one of the other rooms getting some much-needed sleep or searching for something else to help his shoulder—and with him go all hopes of finding the med kit—but Ghoul is still sprawled sideways on the couch, messing with the bracelets around his wrists. Kobra recognizes a few sets of badluck beads just like Party’s, along with several strips of leather with something indistinguishable carved into them, and a piece of red-white-and-blue cloth that looks like it could have come straight from Doctor Death-Defying’s home base.

He hesitates for a moment, but goes over to Ghoul in the end, leaning against the back of the couch and tilting his head to one side. “Yo, asshole,” he says, with the same tone of voice he would use on Party, “m’gonna go see if anyone left porn in any of the empty rooms, wanna come with?”

There’s a moment where he thinks Ghoul is going to hit him, or even just flat-out refuse, but finally he looks up and grins only a little, barely enough for the scar on the corner of his mouth to shift slightly. “Yeah, sure, why not,” he says, his tone deliberately neutral. He can’t be that much older than Kobra, and definitely younger than Party. “But you gotta share the spoils evenly, fucker.”

“Like hell I will, short-ass,” Kobra retorts, and sprints for the stairs, Ghoul hard on his heels behind him. Ghoul grabs onto the back of his jacket, until they both tumble together onto the stained carpet floor at the top of the staircase, laughing breathlessly, stumbling over one another and grinning wildly at each other, and Kobra doesn’t even care about the pain in his wrist. It feels so good to be laughing with a friend.

Kobra wakes up sometime the next morning when Party starts screaming.

It’s been a while since something like this has happened, but the old feeling of panic that settles in his ribcage is painfully familiar; he scrambles out of bed, getting his legs all tangled in the sheets, and runs into the hallway, shouting Party’s name.

Their rooms are right next to one another, but it still takes an eternity before he’s shoving the door to the other room open so hard it slams into the opposite wall and hurrying to Party’s side, saying over and over, “Hey, hey, it’s okay, it’s just me, you’re okay, we’re both okay, it’s me—”

“ _ Blood _ ,” Party gasps, their hands sliding blindly over Kobra’s face as if trying to determine it’s still there, “the fuckin’— _ flies _ —you’re not—not—”

There are tears streaking through the grime on Party’s face; Kobra tries to wipe them off with his sleeve. Party chokes out something wordless and ragged and buries their head in Kobra’s chest. Their fingers close around his bruised wrist, and Kobra inhales sharply on instinct, but the pain doesn’t come.

Party mumbles something else that Kobra can’t hear clearly; their eyes are wide open and sightless, rolled back so that the whites are showing. Kobra can see the bruises all along their neck and collarbone and feels a wave of anger and disgust wash over him at the reminder of how Korse had touched his brother. He shifts so that he’s sitting on the bed with Party and keeps holding onto them while Party shivers violently and clings to his shirt, dispelling the last bits of the dreams that stick even after sleep is gone.

The door slams against the wall again, and Kobra jerks upright, but it’s just Jet Star, bursting into the room with his blaster drawn and without a shirt on. “Fuck,” he says weakly, lowering the weapon when he sees that it’s just the two of them. “Fuck you, you complete idiots, I was so fucking scared—I didn’t ask for an alarm clock, fuck you both, I was  _ sleeping _ .”

“Sorry,” Kobra says, and then the hilarity of the situation overwhelms him and he cracks up helplessly, shoulders shaking. “I just—shit, can you imagine an alarm clock that just fuckin’— _ yelled _ atcha every morning?”

“Yes I can, since I’m experiencing it right now,” says Jet grumpily. He can’t really fold his arms properly, because one of his shoulders is still injured and his other hand is still holding his blaster, but he makes a valiant effort anyway. “So everything’s milkshake? I can go back to bed now?”

Ghoul is standing behind him, Kobra notices. It’s just that Ghoul is short enough to be hidden in the shadows.

“Yeah,” he says. “False alarm—” and then he cracks up again, thinking of the imaginary yelling alarm clock. “Shit, I’m sorry. We’re fine. Shiny. Don’t worry about us. Party just had a nightmare, s’all.”

Ghoul shifts uncomfortably but doesn’t move forwards into the light. “Look,” he says abruptly, like the words are being forced out of him, “I’m no fuckin’ therapist, but—look, when Poison wakes up for real, tell ’em I get it, capisce? The nightmares, that is. Mine aren’t of the screaming variety, not so much, but—yeah. Just let ’em know.”

“Oh. Yeah,” says Kobra, taken aback. “I will. Uh. Jet, I think we’re good, could you just—go put a shirt on or something?”

“Nah, keep it off, spacekid,” Ghoul drawls, finally sliding into the room, batting his eyelashes at Jet exaggeratedly. Party stirs slightly, face still pressed against Kobra’s shoulder, but doesn’t say anything.

Kobra drags his fingers through Party’s hair comfortingly. The tips are slightly singed from the explosion. “Hey, your hair’s kinda burned here,” he says, and Party groans theatrically and tries to shove his hand away. “Ow, fucker, quit it!”

“If you’re sure—” says Jet dubiously.

“Sure as eggs. Go away before you traumatize me with your pectorals an’ shit. I’ll stay in here with Party for the rest of the night.”

Kobra goes back to stroking Party’s hair, trying to keep them calmed down enough so they can get back to sleep without too many nightmares. It’s rhythmic, almost hypnotic; the press of Party’s fingers against his pulse, the sensation of his own fingers brushing through their hair. For a second the two of them could be back in the city, when—

_ No _ , he thinks.

He wants to picture what their room looked like, but he can’t remember. Everything is just a wash of gray.

He thinks—he thinks—they used to sit like this before—

Ghoul snickers, loud and obvious, and the scrap of memory is gone.

The others are all already gathered downstairs the next morning by the time Party gets themself together enough to join them. Kobra looks up and gives them a swift glance that skirts the edge of apology—it probably means he didn’t wake Party up because he wanted them to sleep in longer. Party just rolls their eyes at that and shuffles over to curl up on the end of the couch, right next to a pot holding a long-dead fern, its leaves curled up and dry-brown.

Party can relate.

They feel like shit.

The remnants of the nightmares haven’t completely faded. Party can’t tell if the drying pools of blood and slimy pink-and-gray guts on the floor are actually there or not, but they avoid the spots anyway, just in case. Ghoul gives them a weird look when they sidestep a patch of carpet.

Probably not real, then.

It  _ smells _ real, though, which isn’t fair.

Ghoul seems to be in a much better mood now, anyway; he and Kobra keep giving each other knowing looks and almost laughing. Jet Star is rummaging around behind the receptionist’s check-in desk, but he straightens up after a moment and sighs heavily. “Party, ignore those two assholes, they’re just being immature. We saved a couple protein cubes and about half a can of Power Pup for you, if you’re feeling up to eating.”

“I’ll eat later,” Party mumbles, wincing at the rough and raw feeling the words leave in their mouth when they try to speak, “thanks, though. ’Preciate it.”

Jet walks over and smacks Kobra upside the head affectionately. “Stop acting like you’re twelve, Kid, I could use your help packing up. We should head out soon—the sirens’ll probably start in under an hour, if the sand clouds are anything to go by.”

“Aw, Jet, lemme just show Party what we found last night before we gotta motor,” Kobra says, pouting dramatically, and Ghoul covers his mouth with both hands like he’s trying to stifle a laugh. “Here, Party, take a look at what me’n Ghoul uncovered in a coupla rooms—look at this shit, c’mon—”

The spoils at hand turn out to be a couple of faded old issues of  _ Murder _ magazine, the pages stuffed full of guns and blood and porn and a fair amount of bestiality. Party raises their eyebrows and gives Kobra a look of supreme disapproval, pure older-sibling, and Ghoul actually giggles, slapping his hand over his mouth again hastily and sliding down the edge of the couch.

“ _ Kid _ ,” Party complains, “what the fuck, man, seriously?” Kobra loses it completely at that, burying his face in the torn fabric of the couch, his shoulders shaking with helpless laughter, and even Ghoul continues to smile—it’s a different look from the cocksure grin, much more genuine. “At least  _ some _ of us are in good moods. Fuckers.”

“Well,” says Jet, patiently long-suffering, “Party, if you’re not going to eat anything for the time being, we should probably get moving. Probably we can head back to the diner and regroup from there, since we can’t play bunkers in the hotel for—”

“This ain’t a hotel,” Ghoul complains, sitting up again, “I didn’t get no fuckin’ mint on my pillow, motherfucker.”

“Technically, it’s a  _ mo _ tel. Low-budget and low-class for the riffraff.” Jet pokes Kobra in the back until Kobra scrambles to his feet and swipes aimlessly at Jet’s hand. “Party—you feeling milkshake now?”

“’M fine,” says Party noncommittally, not in the mood for questions. The gore on the carpet isn’t there anymore. It isn’t really a relief, to know that it probably never was. “Let’s motor before the sandstorm hits.”

Ghoul frowns; Party tries and fails not to stare at the scar on his mouth. “Poison, did you look at yourself in the mirror yet?”

“You sayin’ I’m ugly, shithead?”

“I’m saying you look like a fuckin’ mess,” Ghoul mutters, looking down at the floor again, and whatever amiable mood he was in before dissipates completely. Party stands there for a moment longer, scowling, before they stomp off to the nearest bathroom to find something that’s fucking reflective.

There isn’t any running water, so the sink and the tub are both bone-dry and covered in a thick layer of dust, and the mirror is smudged to hell, but Party rubs their sleeve along the surface to remove the worst of the layers of grime.

Ghoul was right, Party thinks, staring at their reflection. They look like a mess.

There are dark circles under their eyes that match the purple-and-yellow ring of bruises where Korse’s hands had been. There are red lines running down their face and around their throat, where they’d scratched helplessly at their own skin during the worst of the nightmares.

“Fuck me,” says Party dully, and closes their eyes. There had to have been something about the gloves—no way would a normal human cause this kind of damage so quickly.

It hits them then that they don’t even know if Korse  _ is _ completely human.

They have to open their eyes again because the flies are creeping into the dark blurriness that lingers behind their eyelids.

Probably it isn’t real.

There’s a soft knock on the edge of the doorframe, and Jet Star’s wild head of hair appears in the gap. “Hey, Party, we’re gonna head out. You okay?”

Party exhales and rubs quickly at their eyes. “Yeah,” they say, “real fuckin’ shiny.”

“Listen,” says Jet Star, “I think you two should ask Ghoul if he’ll just stick with you for good.”

He and Kobra are sitting on the hood of Jet’s car watching the sunset, because it reminds them both of simpler times when the two of them would sit on the floor or the bed in Jet’s room and watch movies or listen to music.

Kobra scrunches up his nose. “Ugh,” he says, “Party’d kill us both, are you fuckin’ fucking with me?”

Jet snorts. He can very clearly picture Party’s outraged expression.

“I’m serious about this, asshole,” he says, nudging Kobra with his elbow. “I think it’d be a good idea to have him on your crew.”

“ _ Our _ crew,” Kobra corrects him sharply. “You’re with us now, no fucking takebacks.”

“Right, that.” Jet laughs, quiet. “Wouldn’t wanna forget.”

“And it isn’t just us that would want him, idiot, didn’t Pony tell you that he doesn’t do shit like that?”

Jet just shrugs. He’s known Ghoul for years, ever since he first started working as a mechanic and Show Pony introduced him to Fun Ghoul, who had been doing odd jobs at the time. Some of those odd jobs included fixing up cars or, if the machines were beyond repair, repurposing their parts to make explosives.

“He was great at the motel,” he points out. “Blowing up those dracs and all. And we didn’t pay him or anything. He doesn’t do that shit for anybody, y’know. Even  _ I _ usually gotta pay him.”

“Fine,  _ fine _ , I’ll ask if it makes you happy, weirdo,” Kobra relents, “but I don’t expect a positive response, just so you know.”

The tell Party Poison together later that evening, since (as Jet Star helpfully points out) Party is a stubborn and petty piece of shit.

It’s a difficult fact to argue with.

Party makes a valiant effort to argue anyway, just out of principle.

They don’t run into Fun Ghoul again until almost a week later, when he shows up out of nowhere with blood all over his face, dripping down onto his shirt and staining it red. He refuses to tell anyone precisely what happened, just that he needs to talk to Show Pony, but he does relent enough to allow Jet to wipe off some of the blood with a damp rag.

“Fuckin’ stings like a motherfucker,” he hisses, and clenches his teeth together when Jet tugs down the bandana over his mouth so he can clean the rest of the injuries.

“What’d you do, run headfirst into a laser blast? Or crash your face right into someone’s knuckles? Kiss a pistol-whip? Of course it’s gonna hurt. Idiot,” says Jet, shaking his head as he sponges blood off Ghoul’s inner lip. “Someday you’ll find a crew that’ll be able to handle your whack-ass daredevil stunts.”

Ghoul grins through bloody teeth. “Aw, Starboy, you telling me I’ll find a nice girl an’ settle down? You and I both know full well neither of those things’re gonna happen in this lifetime, baby.”

“I wouldn’t dream of insinuating that,” Jet says, rolling his eyes, “god forbid.”

“You know I don’t really run with anybody living these days, and I don’t really think you’d swallow bullets to change my mind. Besides, it was a coupla hundred carbons to ka-boom that shit, show me a roachie that wouldn’ta taken the fucking dance when offered and I’ll show you a tatty son of a bitch.”

Jet snorts and starts rinsing out the bloodied rag. “You don’t know what I’d do.”

“Color me shaking in my shitkickers,” says Ghoul. He spits a mouthful of saliva and blood onto the floor with finality, then wipes his mouth roughly, smearing blood across the back of his hand.

The first time that they officially ask him to join their ragtag ensemble, he just throws a meaningful glance over at Party Poison, who hasn’t really been on board with the whole  _ collectivity _ part of the conversation; Party deliberately ignores him.

“You killjoys gonna pay me? I don’t put out for free these days.”

“Ghoul,” says Jet Star, pressing his fingertips to his temples. “C’mon. Quit actin’ like Tommy Chow Mein’s much-shorter clone, that joke hasn’t ever been funny.”

Ghoul pretends to look shocked. “What, didn’t the old man tell you that I’ve been working for him? S’been ages, dude, got the paychecks to prove it an’ all that bureaucratic kinda bullshit, coulda sworn he’d said somethin’ before—”

“I’d believe that if there weren’t a sign on the door to his shop specifically cautioning you against tryna steal any more smokes,” Jet says sourly. “Get off the highway, you dick, I’m not an idiot.”

“Gotta argue with ya on that one there, since you’re asking me to run with you,” says Ghoul pensively, raising his eyebrows. “Just goes to show we don’t all know when we’re fucked up, don’t we?”

T he second time they ask him, Fun Ghoul just laughs kind of wildly until it’s not only Party Poison who’s seriously considering knocking his teeth out completely. “Y’know, I don’t do that kinda shit,” he says, and doesn’t offer any explanation beyond adding a perfunctory, “least—not anymore.”

“Man, fuck your  _ crew _ ,” says Fun Ghoul, the third time they ask him to stick with them, and grins easily. He winks, infuriatingly, and tries to look innocent when Jet Star groans and rubs his forehead like he actually has a headache from the whole thing.

Party gives up completely, just grits their teeth and storms away without looking back to see if anyone (Kobra, primarily) is following them.

Ghoul shouts after them, “You know you want me, though, baby!” and Party flips him off over their shoulder and keeps walking determinedly, trying to ignore Ghoul’s laughter in the background.

They stop asking him after that.


	4. Chapter 4

Fun Ghoul is still reluctant to even consider trusting Party Poison and Jet Star and the Kobra Kid. He might have known Jet Star for a bit longer than the other two, and it’s not like he thinks of any of them as bad people, even if they  _ were _ born in the city, it’s just—

He’s used to having everything he cares about stripped away from him, piece by piece.

It’s easier not to get attached.

There isn’t anything he hates more in the world than Better Living Industries. They did their best to destroy him. He’s going to return the favor even if he has to blow himself up in the process.

He doesn’t want to take anyone else along with him—it wouldn’t be worth it, to get someone sacrificed for his own fucked-up problems. It’s comforting, to keep thinking of an impossible strategy. It’s comforting, to build makeshift roadside bombs out of scrap parts, just to know that he can.

Sometimes he hates Party and Jet and Kobra, mostly because of how much he wants to trust them. But he’s tried trusting people before, and it got him a cell in the Battery where he could be poked and prodded and pumped full of sedatives for fucking  _ months _ .

Kobra seems like he’s decent enough, and he’s not enough of a dick that Ghoul really worries, but he’s still from the place Ghoul hates the most.

And Party is alluring and dangerous and obviously completely fucked-up; Ghoul almost wants to grab Party by the shoulders and say, hey motherfucker, you and I are in the same sinking boat. He wants Party to stand next to him while they watch something burning to the ground and know that it’s the end of the world and laugh despite it all.

He can recognize the familiarity that settles in his stomach when Party flinches away from something that isn’t there.

But if he doesn’t scare easily, then he doesn’t trust easily either. He still kind of wants to stay alive, if only to go out with a bang. He’s heard enough about the Fabulous Killjoys—the three of them—that he knows they’re bad luck. He’s on thin enough terms with the Witch already anyway.

The only surefire way to get Party Poison to do something you want them to do is to threaten their brother.

Korse must know this—it’s not exactly a surprise or a great secret anymore, but when Kobra says he’s going to take one of Jet Star’s motorbikes over to the motel for a while, and then hasn’t returned even once the shadows are lengthening and creeping across the sand, Party gets restless and snappish.

There’s an itch in their fingers that Show Pony says happens to everyone who spends enough time out in the desert underneath the sun, but it’s hard not to worry when Kobra promised he would be right back and it’s been all day and he isn’t anywhere to be found.

Going after him is a stupid idea, but Party doesn’t fucking care.

They’ve had a thousand different dreams about a thousand different ways that Kobra could die, whether it’s slowly choking on his own blood when it bubbles from the jagged tear in his throat or his head jerking to the side as a drac shoots him once in the back of the skull.

The first mistake, Party thinks, was letting Kobra out of their sight in the first place.

Kobra could be hurt, trapped in the motel with dracs surrounding him, or—

It isn’t difficult to imagine a worse scenario. Party thinks about how he was the one thing that kept them going when leaving Battery City felt like an impossibility, thinks about how he was the one thing that kept them going when the desert seemed endless and forbidding as it stretched out in front of them, full of unknown horrors.

There isn’t an option available that isn’t to go after Kobra.

They go alone, because it’s long after dark and it would be stupid and reckless to risk anyone else. They don’t know how to drive any of the motorcycles, so Party sneaks out to the makeshift lot behind the diner and finds Jet’s car.

The key is in the ignition like always. It makes an escape faster, if it’s needed.

Kobra’s bike isn’t anywhere to be seen outside the motel. The only vehicle present is one of the trademark white cars with the Better Living insignia on the side. The doors are unlocked and the keys are still in the ignition, but there’s nobody inside, not even in the trunk; Party makes sure to check just in case.

The presence of the car means that dracs must have been at the motel at some point relatively recently—something unheard of, something that crosses a line. Neutral territory has always been respected, even by dracs.

All bets are off, Party thinks grimly.

Kobra could be anywhere.

Anyone lurking inside probably would already have heard the low growl of the engine by the time Party slams the door shut and starts purposefully towards the glass doors of the motel, so they get one hand on their blaster and pull the night-vision goggles down to cover their eyes. If they’re not already dead, they probably won’t be shot as soon as they step through the doors.

There isn’t anyone in the motel lobby.

Party wasn’t really expecting there to be.

Checking the rooms is nerve-wracking because Kobra could be behind each door, unconscious or injured or bleeding onto the stained and faded carpet. Party checks each room anyway.

No Kobra.

No dracs.

Nothing.

They run into Korse in what must be more than the tenth room. He’s sitting in an armchair, legs crossed lazily, waiting.

Someone must have kicked a hole in the TV; the screen is cracked and peeling. The furniture is faded old velvet, crushed and matted with unidentifiable stains.

“Shut the door,” says Korse, and Party is surprised and confused enough that they almost do; their hand twitches towards the handle, then they pull it back.

Korse frowns.

Party levels their blaster at Korse’s chest. One clear shot and the whole thing would be over for good. “I could ghost you right here, motherfucker,” Party says, hoping their voice isn’t shaking. “No witnesses. No escape. Just me and you.”

Just like old times.

Except there never really were any old times.

Korse just smiles like he knows he’s already won and stands up smoothly. He walks deliberately across the room until he’s standing close enough that it would be impossible to miss.

He says, “You could. You won’t, though.”

And then he kisses Party, kind of forcefully, like he knows he can take whatever he wants.

It’s so much different of a setting from how Party had ever imagined it that they don’t know how to react for several long moments, since Korse is fully in control anyway. One of his hands is resting on Party’s neck, right underneath where the bandana covers up any remnants of bruises, and his fingers push into the skin. The faint, barely-there edge of pain makes everything horribly better and worse all at once.

They’re expecting it this time, when the flies start swarming at the edges of their vision, buzzing in a riotous cacophony of noise.

Party finally gathers themself enough to shove Korse away and stagger backwards, blaster almost forgotten in their hand, and get the motel bed in between the two of them. Korse doesn’t seem to be armed.

He just keeps smiling, like he’s a fucking walking advertisement for Better Living, and Party can’t decide if they want to scream or break something or try to kiss him again. Maybe everything at once.

Party lifts their free hand and wipes off their mouth, fighting back the nauseating disgust that’s threatening to choke them.

Very slowly, and very deliberately, they lean over and spit onto the floor.

Korse hasn’t stopped smiling. He doesn’t move either, just standing there on the other side of the room. “You could come back,” says Korse, his voice soft, almost like a caress. “Better Living forgives, you know. I’m sure you’re already aware of the rehabilitation program for citizens who have been indoctrinated into the terrorist lifestyle.”

“My friends aren’t fuckin’ terrorists,” Party manages to hiss. It feels like they’re ten years old again, sitting in a classroom watching a group of Better Living employees give a presentation on all the wonders that Better Living can do for the citizens of the marvelous paradise that is Battery City.

“Their methods of manipulation are extremely effective, and the lies about a potential lifestyle are seductive, it’s true,” Korse says evenly. “I understand that you most likely believe what you’re saying. If they’ve told you that returning voluntarily to Battery City would result in criminal charges being placed against you, or some other form of punishment, I can assure you that this is not the case.”

It’s a clever speech.

Party is still trying to work through what they want—the zonerunners might not have seemed like terrorists so far, but there’s a part of them that still secretly and desperately longs for the way things used to be when they were younger, the easy familiarity and routine. There were no surprises, in Battery City. There was no question of whether you were going get enough food to eat, or clean water to drink.

But then Korse says, “There will always be a place for you and Michael in the city,” and that’s the mistake.

It’s been enough time spent in the Zones that Party has grown used to calling their brother  _ Kobra _ , and encountering the Battery City name so suddenly is a horrible shock. It doesn’t seem right, to hear that word being spoken.

They haven’t thought of Kobra as  _ Mikey _ , much less as  _ Michael _ , since what seems like a lifetime ago. The person called  _ Mikey _ died in Battery City the same way the person called  _ Gerard _ did. They’re ghosts, shadows, nothing but dead air.

Party thinks, you have no right to talk about my brother. You have no right to put that name in your mouth.

The incident is jarring enough that Party snaps out of their brain-fogged funk and throws themself at Korse without a plan or any thought for their own safety, not trying to do anything specific, just thinking  _ Kobra _ .

They get a hand around Korse’s neck, trying to dig their fingers into his throat.

Korse hits them in the ribs and they both stumble and fall, crashing into the floor while still struggling for control of the blaster—fuck, Party thinks, the fucking  _ blaster _ . They swing their leg wildly and their foot collides with the weapon, sending it spinning across the room; they’re not thinking clearly, fueled by adrenaline and fear.

The air feels like it’s fucking  _ buzzing _ with electricity.

Korse shoves Party away one-handed and scrabbles for the blaster, and Party manages to scramble to their feet and runs out of the room into the hallway. Korse must have located the weapon; he fires off a shot after them, leaving scorch marks on the faded and peeling wallpaper.

Party gets into the lobby of the hotel.

There’s still no one there, no dracs or anything else.

The buzzing in their ears ( _ in their head _ ) is gone.

They almost pause, but then they hear Korse yelling something indistinct at them from the top of the stairs, and they don’t stop to think, they just bolt out through the glass doors of the motel and into the desert.

Korse’s car is  _ right _ there. Keys still in the ignition, doors still unlocked. Party knows how to drive. The only course of action is to take it.

And that’s how they get the car.

Kobra finds his own way home. Jet Star discovers him and Party curled up together in the kitchen, wrapped around each other like they never want to let go. In the dim light of the diner, their eyes glitter like mirrors when they look up simultaneously.

“It’s just me,” says Jet reassuringly, stepping into the room. “Hey, uh. Are you aware that there’s—”

“The car is fuckin’ milkshake,” says Kobra firmly. His teeth flash in the dark when he speaks. “Party got it from Korse. It’s ours now.”

Jet Star stares at the two of them and opens his mouth to speak, then closes it. He boggles at them. Then he opens his mouth again and says, “You ran into fucking  _ Korse? _ Did you finally fuckin’ ghost him? I’m sick of seeing that slimy bastard’s pasty face in every newspaper and on every Battery broadcast.”

“No,” says Kobra, and doesn’t offer any further explanation. Party hasn’t said anything at all, not even to acknowledge Jet’s presence.

“You— _ what? _ ” splutters Jet. “You ran into—? Fuck, you could have taken out  _ Korse _ —our biggest enemy, the person who literally wants us all dead and in the ground? And you fucked it up? What the hell, Party, did you forget how to aim your fuckin’ zapper or what?”

It’s then that he notices that Party’s blaster is nowhere in sight. Kobra’s is strapped to his belt as usual, and Jet has his own at his side, but the space where Party’s should be is glaringly empty.

Weird.

Kobra’s head snaps up sharply and he hisses, “Lay  _ off _ .”

Jet steps back and raises his hands in surrender. He knows when not to push an issue. “Woah, okay, cool the carburetors, Kid. I was just asking. I’ll just, uh, leave you two alone for now, I guess.”

Neither of them says anything in response to that, and neither of them make eye contact either; he isn’t sure if Party even knew he was there in the first place. Whatever happened, it wasn’t good, and it clearly isn’t something either of them are willing to talk about yet.

Fuckin’ weird, he thinks, bemused, and trundles off to find a working body bag and try to get some sleep. No use dwelling on something that’s already happened; they can work everything out in the morning.

Maybe Kobra notices more than he lets on, Party thinks, then stops that line of thought before it goes any further. They don’t want to dwell on it. They try to focus on just holding onto Kobra and listening to the comforting pounding of his heart.

It’s always been more difficult in the dark, when anything in the shadows could be a drac waiting to ghost them both, waiting to take Kobra away and slowly cut him into little pieces while they make Party watch, helpless and restrained, unable to do anything but scream Kobra’s name over and over.

They don’t run into Korse—or any other dracs or exxies or crows or anything—for several excruciatingly long days.

They’re all anxious and stressed, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it doesn’t come; the motel remains intact, despite everything that’s happened. No dracs show up to threaten the diner. No dracs show up to threaten anywhere else, either. The desert is eerily empty of white-suited enforcers.

Korse likes to play with his food, Party thinks, feeling sick to their stomach. He’ll show up when they least expect it.

Waiting for the inevitable.

They don’t want to let Kobra out of their sight for even a second, but every time they look over at him, they can see what it would look like if he were already long dead, the flesh rotting off his bones while insects eat away at his insides.

It’s a sick sort of fascination that makes them keep looking.

“‘M gonna put on some music,” Kobra says. A shiny-shelled black beetle falls out of his ribcage and onto the floor.

Probably it isn’t real.

But it all gets a little less horrible when the three of them head to Doctor Death-Defying’s the next morning, and Show Pony is there with spoils from Tommy Chow Mein’s latest raided shipment of edible goods.

Show Pony makes them all cups of some calming herbal tea that they somehow managed to convince Tommy to get for them, and Kobra puts on a record and messes around with the music until Party Poison feels a lot less like they’ll fly apart at the seams if they have to pretend to breathe evenly for one more fucking second.

Party tries to play it off as though nothing really happened in the motel, but they’re more shaken than they’ll ever let on, much less when Kobra is around. They’re still trying to shield their brother from the worst of everything.

Kobra, of course, knows that  _ something _ is up, but he also knows better than to push the issue too far. Talking about the past is still a tentative subject, especially now that certain unpleasant elements of their past have come screaming back in vivid Technicolor to haunt and pursue them.

The nightmares make everything so much worse.

And the hallucinations. Party doesn’t know if they count as hallucinations when they’re only sure about half the time that they aren’t actually real.

But Party can’t stop dwelling on it, feeling that familiar old twist in their stomach every time they think about Korse—only now it’s much worse, because they know what it would be like, now their imagination has something to work with.

Every time they wake up they feel sick and disgusted with themself but that doesn’t mean they didn’t enjoy it in the dreams, and that’s almost even worse.

They would almost prefer the dreams where Kobra dies and screams in pain while he dies, because at least Party knows that it’s an outcome that they don’t want.

In the dreams, Korse is always in control.

Party Poison doesn’t ever want to feel like they’re not in control.

Not ever again.

They’ve still got that self-destructive streak, so the next night they sneak out to go to some random impulsive party or concert or something like that, even though they told Kobra they weren’t going to do that sort of thing anymore. They go into Show Pony’s costume cache and smear on some makeup kind of haphazardly because they forgot the yellow mask back at the diner and it makes them uncomfortable anyway, and when they look in the mirror it looks fucked-up and dangerous and awesome.

Party finds the same red sparkly dress they wore for that one Mad Gear concert the first time and pulls it on.

Their hair is a mess and their makeup is a mess and their outfit is real fucking shiny and sexy as an explosion and everything is humming with this low sort of adrenaline and Party just wants to get up and  _ go! _ and fuck something up or get fucked up or both, or something in between, whatever happens to come first.

It really doesn’t matter. They could blow something up or fuck a stranger, anything sounds good as long as they can ride that adrenaline high and forget about the ten thousand fucked-up disasters waiting for them back at the diner.

Everything feels real, and  _ that _ matters. Party wants to cling to the little piece of solid consciousness for as long as possible before it slips away.

They intend to go to Doctor Death-Defying’s little shack and take one of the cars, possibly the Jeep or a motorcycle or something like that even though Jet never got around to teaching them how to drive any of the cycles (but really, how complicated could it be?), but when they get there they notice that the usual light is off.

Party thinks, please no, fuck,  _ please _ , and sneaks inside with one hand on their blaster.

The adrenaline is back, jolting through them like an electric current; everything feels like a finger on a detonator, waiting, waiting for the signal.

There isn’t any trouble, thank fuck, just Show Pony and Fun Ghoul sitting together on the couch and talking quietly with only the smaller reading lamp on, and Party doesn’t know why they suddenly feel even more conflicted.

Not quite jealous, even, just—conflicted.

Show Pony looks up and says approvingly, “Fuck me, motordoll, you look  _ atomic _ . What’s the four and double ones, you lookin’ for the Doc?”

“Thanks,” says Party awkwardly, feeling like an underage teenager asking to borrow the car keys for a night out with their friends. “I’m looking for a ride, if you’ve got one I can take for a spin. And give back later, cross my heart.”

“Ghoulie here could drive you,” Pony says, and pats Fun Ghoul’s knee. Ghoul looks up, startled, then quickly looks away again.

“I don’t wanna inconvenience you or some shit,” Party mumbles, but Ghoul just mutters that it’s fine because he was planning on leaving soon enough anyway.

It feels like a lie or at least not the full truth but whatever, Party isn’t going to question it. They don’t dislike Ghoul  _ that _ much—it’s a free ride, after all; that’s worth a lot, since cars aren’t easy to come by and fuel isn’t cheap.

Party’s never been in Ghoul’s car while conscious; the ride to the motel doesn’t exactly count. It looks like a fucking shitbox, covered in rust and laser burns and caked-on dust from miles and miles of hard driving. The body is electric yellow, and the black racing stripes along the side look hand-painted. The windows are rolled up and somehow all still intact. Party figures, Ghoul’s a mechanic, so it’s probably pretty unlikely that the car will fall apart halfway along Resurrection Road.

That isn’t as reassuring a thought as it probably should be.

Ghoul starts the ignition with a guttural grinding of metal and asks, “Where’d you need to be?”

The party they were planning to go to is in Zone Four, in some irreputable place called The Pit, but Party just chews on their lip and doesn’t say that. Instead, they say, “Fuck it, just—drive wherever you wanna fucking go, red-line that shit. I’m—I just needed to not be where I was for a while.”

Ghoul doesn’t say anything for a long while, just drives in silence in the dark, then says, “Yeah, I can get that.”

Then neither of them says anything for another long while.

Party takes their time looking around the car for signs of personalization—there are a couple of bright-colored bandages slapped on the dash, and a smiley face with the eyes crossed out painted onto the center of the steering wheel, and a tiny plastic Mousekat bobblehead hanging from the rearview, spinning around every time the tires bump over a ditch or a rock or something else. Party thinks, if Ghoul hates the city so much, why does he have Mousekat merch in his car? but by now they’re used to nothing about Ghoul adding up.

Finally Party runs out of other things to pretend they’re looking at, and glances over at Fun Ghoul. In the dark—there don’t seem to be many stars out in the desert—it’s difficult to tell for sure, but Party can almost make out that his roots are starting to show.

They don’t plan to say anything, but before they can think any better of it, they end up blurting out, “You dye your hair?”

Ghoul doesn’t flinch, not quite, but his fingers tighten slightly on the wheel. “Uh, yeah. Black,” he adds unnecessarily.

“We make a suit of cards,” Party says, because it’s the first thing that popped into their head, and Ghoul actually exhales in a way that could be the ghost of a laugh. “I’m calling the diamond right now, though.”

“Yeah, fuck, I kinda figured,” Ghoul says. “You like shiny things, s’ why you’re going to this—whatever it is. All dressed up in glittery colors and shit.”

They hit Route Guano, and Ghoul takes one hand off the wheel to roll down the windows while speeding along. Party leans forwards and tips their head back, letting the breeze smack them straight in the face and tangle their hair, and Ghoul actually whoops out loud and says happily, “There ain’t a point to having a set of wheels if you can’t feel the wind in your hair, motherfucker!”

Party is completely on board with that, one hundred fucking percent on board with driving fast and dangerous, but then Ghoul slows down. Party makes a whining noise of protest in their throat before they can think better of it. Ghoul notices, they know he does; they can feel their face heating up.

“Sure you wanna have the glass down? Wouldn’t wanna fuck up that shiny getup of yours,” says Ghoul, smirking like it’s all just a joke and nothing more, but his hand is still resting steady on the wheel.

Party considers it for about a picosecond. “Nah, baby, I like to get messy sometimes,” they say, grinning as wickedly as they can before their conscience can sneak back and remind them in Kobra’s voice that they’re making a fucking terrible decision. Ghoul just grins back at them and hits the accelerator again.

The drive along Route Guano seems endless, racing along far faster than anything in the entire fucking world, the noise of the wind coming in the windows drowning out anything else they would try to say. Party sticks a hand out the window, then a whole arm, then moves around until they’re almost on their knees with the front half of their body dangling out over the side of the car, dizzy and thrilled and windblown, unable to hold back a shout of pure elation at the sheer feeling of freedom.

Ghoul gets one hand off the wheel and turns on the radio, and—they don’t call it the Miracle Mile for nothing, Party thinks—there’s music coming out of the speakers, Doctor Death-Defying’s familiar gravelly voice announcing the next song, and then they’re both singing along at their tops of their lungs,  _ and I guess that I could get crazy now baby cause we all got in tune _ , Ghoul tapping out a rhythm on the side of the car, Party still leaning out of the window and trying to keep their eyes wide open against the wild barrage of air, intoxicated by everything.

Eventually they park the car and Ghoul turns down the volume but doesn’t switch off the music quite yet.

The song fades away, and then Doctor Death-Defying is back, signing off—“This is the one and only Doctor Death-Defying, bringing you the shiniest melodies to keep you in good health and to keep you tuning into radio nowhere. All you loners tonight with nobody to hold you tight, all you lonely dust devils wondering if there’s anything better to come, this is the voice in the static reminding you to keep living, keep shining,  _ mean _ something. Stay alert, stay alive. Today is MONTH DAY 2037 TK. It’s time for the weather report.”

There’s a burst of static, an electric whine like a record scratch, then nothing but faint crackling.

Ghoul still doesn’t move for a moment, and Party doesn’t either, both of them waiting for a bit longer out of habit—just in case. But then Ghoul makes a muffled sound so quiet it’s almost unnoticeable and reaches over to turn off the radio.

“The good Doctor, he’s always been there for me when I needed him most,” Ghoul says, subdued. Party doesn’t know quite what to say in response to that, so they just nod and hug their knees to their chest.

They sit there in silence for a while.

It feels somehow comfortable and familiar, even without the music or the voice of Doctor Death-Defying reminding them that they’re not alone in the lonely desert. Party could almost forget that they’re supposed to be angry at everything, Ghoul included. It’s half-hearted when Party thinks, fuck, I hate this so goddamn much. But they don’t say anything, obviously.

They don’t know what to say.

Eventually, Ghoul leans out of the still-open window and waves an arm expansively up at the empty sky stretching out darkly above them. “Take a look,” he says. “S’where the stars would be.”

There were stars back in the city, Party thinks about saying, then doesn’t. They think about how they used to love hanging onto the ledge of the window, gazing up and out at the hazy sky, scattered with stars like bullet-holes.

Everything still feels real.

“What happened to ’em?” they say instead, peering up at the blackness.

Ghoul shrugs. “Pollution, probably. S’a story that the Witch took ’em all, as penance for somethin’ or somethin’ else. Dunno if I believe that, but it sure ain’t natural shit that goes on up there. No more stars over the desert—only thing in the sky these days is a buncha dead satellites.”

“Poetic,” Party snorts. Something about the phrasing is familiar, but they don’t want to dwell on it.

“Fuckin’ milkshake, baby, I’ll be the next Doctor Death-Defying,” says Ghoul dismissively, but that’s enough to get Party interested.

“You think? You an’ Pony go way back, from what I can tell.”

The corner of Ghoul’s mouth twitches. He says evenly, “Yeah, we knew each other in a past life.”

“Well,  _ now _ you sound like the good Agent Cherri Cola himself,” Party drawls, and shifts a little so they can see the sky through the glass of the windshield. Thinking about Cherri Cola almost makes them angry again—Kobra still doesn’t like to talk about it—but it’s difficult to stay angry underneath all that sky.

“Past lives, huh,” says Ghoul, musing. “What’d that be for you, then, back in the Battery?”

“Back in hell,” Party says shortly.

Ghoul snorts. “There was really nothing worth staying for? No friends or family or girlfriend or whatever the fuck?”

“I got what mattered out,” Party says. They don’t know why Ghoul suddenly seems interested in talking about Battery City. They don’t mean to let anything slip, especially not about their time in the city—Ghoul might be giving them a ride, but that doesn’t mean the two of them are best buddies. Party isn’t quite enough of an asshole to start blabbering on about one of Ghoul’s least favorite subjects.

“Right,” says Ghoul. He raises his eyebrows. “The Kobra Kid.”

“The one and only,” Party says. Talking about Kobra is something they never really feel safe doing, even with someone like Show Pony, someone they know they can trust. Having Doctor Death-Defying and Show Pony vouch for Ghoul’s reliability isn’t quite enough to cement him as an ally in Party’s book of names. They say, as noncommittal as possible, “Man, I just wanted to keep him safe and out of harm, y’know? He’s the only family I have left.”

“Don’t tell Pony that,” Ghoul mutters. “They’d start a cycle if they heard you didn’t consider ’em family.”

“Pony’s family,” Party says, offended, “but Kobra’s my brother, and that’s different, it’s—fuck, he was all I had for so long, he got me outta the Battery. No one’s ever gonna take his place.”

Ghoul’s face goes blank. He says, “Yeah, the Kid. Kobra. Your brother.”

“Yeah,” says Party cautiously. They can’t remember if Ghoul already knew that the two of them were related by blood; Show Pony’s warning not to tell anyone that they were brothers is suddenly ringing loudly through their head.

They abruptly don’t want to talk about Battery City, about Better Living Industries, about—Korse. They don’t want to consider that they might be the reason that Korse wants to kill them all and burn the desert to the ground.

It should feel better, somehow, to be talking about it with someone, even if that someone is Fun Ghoul, of all fucking people, but it doesn’t.

They chew on their fingernails, musing. It isn’t as though they could say, “Oh, hey, when I was a kid in the Battery, all strung out on pills and shit, I had a weird fucked-up crush on the guy who’s trying his best to get us all ghosted.” Something tells them that Ghoul wouldn’t exactly understand the reasoning behind that.

Party doesn’t mention the dreams, hallucinations, visions, whatever the fuck they are. They remember when the droid back in the city called them a  _ conduit _ . The word doesn’t feel comfortable where it rests heavy and sharp on their tongue. It carries with it the same slow, sick sort of feeling that spread through their every limb when the Phoenix Witch told them to  _ keep running _ .

“I know you hate killjoys,” Party mumbles, and doesn’t look at Ghoul’s face, just stares purposefully out the window at the empty sky. “Not our fault we were born in the wrong circle of hell.”

“Yeah, but you don’t hafta be such fuckin’ assholes bout it,” says Ghoul, but there’s something lighter, almost teasing, in his voice.

Party glances over at him suspiciously.

His accent is so different from the accents of people back in the city, Party thinks, and realizes that they’ve kind of been staring at his mouth for too long again. The scar really is enticing, tantalizing.

Ghoul must notice, because he raises his eyebrows and says, “Careful, Poison, someone might start to think you don’t hate me with a  _ passion _ ,” and that’s back on familiar ground, back where they’re used to being.

Back on the right track—no skipping of the needle. Party just grins at him, devil-sharp, and says, “Nah, baby, I fuckin’ despise you,” then thinks, oh fuck it, and kisses him.

Everything feels  _ real _ .

It feels more than real, like reality has been shaken up and tossed high into the air, bright and glowing and alive. It feels fucking incandescent.

It’s nothing like it had been with Korse—this is messy and awkward with the gearshift in between them, both of them twisting uncomfortably to make the angle work with the seats and the dash and the steering wheel all getting in the way, but it’s also unfairly amazing. Party pushes forwards and tries to bite, but Ghoul just pushes right back and gets a hand in their hair and  _ pulls _ , and Party moans and shifts around until they’re half-in half-out of the seat, climbing halfway into Ghoul’s lap, limbs all tangled up together.

“For the record, I still hate you,” says Party, when they have to take a break to breathe. Ghoul’s hand is still caught in their hair, thumb rubbing steadily back and forth against their scalp, slowly driving them crazy just from the contact, the touch.

It skirts the line of  _ too much _ and settles comfortably on the side of  _ yes, yes, more _ .

Ghoul just smirks and says, “Your tongue was in my mouth two seconds ago, asshole, you sure about that?”

“Yeah,” says Party, daring him to argue, “one hundred and thirteen percent, fucker,” and presses forwards to kiss him again until Ghoul flails and shoves them back, spluttering. “What the fuck, dude?”

“Turn off the fucking high-beams before we both get ghosted,” Ghoul hisses. Party notices with no small satisfaction that his voice sounds rougher than usual.

They fumble behind them until the bright glare of the headlights vanishes and it’s nearly dark inside the car. On particularly clean nights like this one, it’s almost possible to see the faint outline of the moon, still somewhere up in the sky, hidden behind ozone and pollution. It’s just enough light to see the faint shadowy lines of Ghoul’s face.

Party tilts their head to the side, appraising. “Milkshake? You like what you’re seeing?”

“Shut the fuck up for two seconds,” Ghoul snaps. He grabs the front of Party’s jacket and yanks; Party flings out their arm on instinct, reflexive, but doesn’t manage to catch themself before they’re sprawled against his chest, the hard plastic of the steering wheel digging into their lower back.

“Be nice, now,” Party says, grinning up at him. Ghoul just makes a wordless noise of irritation and drags them up by the collar of their jacket to kiss them.

It’s hot and messy and somehow almost like they’re fighting again even though it should be the opposite, both of them pushing and shoving at each other, Ghoul with one hand still tangled in their hair and Party trying to bite him anywhere they can. Ghoul pulls on their hair hard enough that Party has to detach their teeth from his neck, gasping. “Ah, ah, just—”

Ghoul kisses their cheek, gentle, unexpected. “Figured you’d like it rough,” he says, sounding almost amused. Party can feel the raised skin around Ghoul’s scar when they move their mouth across his jawline.

There’s really only one thing to do when confronted with  _ that _ .

Party grabs Ghoul’s jaw, turning his head to the side, and licks his face, right across the scar. Ghoul splutters and wipes his face off on Party’s shoulder, then rubs his tongue over the same spot and bites down on skin already slippery from spit, and Party sucks in a breath and arches their back and moans.

“Oh, okay, just—fucking shit, fuck,” says Ghoul, mouth resting on the bare skin of Party’s shoulder, “you sure aren’t complaining about the biting  _ now _ , are you?”

Party laughs helplessly, shoulders shaking, kinda taken aback and kinda overwhelmed but not really uncomfortably so and most of all just frustratingly, desperately turned on, and it’s just—

It’s just—

It fits, in some fucked-up sideways sort of way. Nothing adds up about Ghoul, but somehow that still manages to make sense; it’s just so fucking  _ right _ .

It really is the most annoying thing in the entire goddamn world.

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” Ghoul says into their shoulder. He unzips their jacket and pushes it off their shoulders, then runs one hand down their side, settling against their waist, fingers pressing into the dip of their hipbone. “So goddamn infuriating—”

“You tryna get laid or not?” Party demands. “That’s not the way to get into anyone’s pants, jackass. Tell me I’m pretty.”

“Pretty annoying,” Ghoul mumbles. He slides his other hand down to their waist, pulling them even closer. “I don’t care if you hate me, whatever, you wanna—?”

Party laughs again; it comes out more like a breathless exhale. “Yeah, yes, just—c’mon.” They push away from him and try to scramble into the backseat of the car, losing one of their shoes in the process. The heels had been a bad fucking idea, Party thinks, feeling giddy, and then they’re tumbling into the backseat and Ghoul climbs on top of them this time, grinding their hips together, leaning down to kiss them.

“Fucker,” Party hisses into his mouth. Ghoul responds by biting their lower lip and pulling on their hair again, gloating when it makes them gasp and shudder against him. “Ah, fuck— _ fuck _ —”

Ghoul pushes them back against the seat, dropping his hands until he’s shifting their legs apart, sliding the dress up their thighs. “Let me?”

Party leans their head back against the headrest, kicking out one leg into the footwell and focusing on breathing evenly; looking down at Ghoul when he’s pressing careful kisses to the inside of their knees feels like it would be crossing some invisible line, some unspoken boundary. “Yeah,” they say roughly. They’re not sure exactly what they’re agreeing to anymore. “Yeah, okay.”

Party’s expecting it to be awkward, afterwards, the way it was with Show Pony at first, but Ghoul just makes a face at the mess and says pointedly, “See, asshole, that’s why I swallowed.”

“Hey, at least it’s  _ your _ jizz,” Party says lightly, relieved, slumping back in their seat. They’re not about to use their skirt to clean up, and Ghoul doesn’t seem inclined to move either. “Beats having to clean up after your one-night stand.”

Ghoul snorts. “Don’t make it a one-night stand, then. Problem solved. Next time you can fuckin’ clean up after yourself like a big girl.”

“Next time I’ll just blow you,” Party says. They feel faintly dizzy, and they hesitate for a moment, thinking—but no, everything still feels real. The empty sky, the old leather seats, the smell of gasoline and sex. “Problem solved.”

“Put your money where your mouth is. Or the other way around, whichever.” Ghoul climbs back into the front seat with a groan, reaching for the key that’s still resting in the ignition. “I guess you want me to take you back to the diner now, yeah?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Party mumbles, chewing on their fingernail. Show Pony’s going to be insufferable. Fuck, forget that, Kobra’s going to kill them. They probably should have told him they were leaving. Maybe he knew anyway, Party thinks. He’s perceptive; sometimes he knows what Party’s going to do even before they decide to do it.

The rest of the drive passes in silence. Party stays in the backseat, shivering slightly and looking out the window. Their Dead Pegasus jacket is still in the front seat; they don’t really want to move to retrieve it. The dress barely provides any warmth at all. The loss of body heat is tangible.

Ghoul is so fucking annoying, Party thinks, leaning their head against the cool glass of the window. It isn’t fair that he’s also hot.

“Okay, Poison,” Ghoul says finally, stopping the car in front of the diner and tossing the jacket into the backseat. “Home sweet gas station. You ready for the walk of shame?”

“That only applies if I’m ashamed, idiot.” Party hesitates, one hand on the metal curve of the door. “Tomorrow,” they say finally. “Be here tomorrow.”

Ghoul doesn’t seem perturbed; he raises his eyebrows. His bandana is pulled up over his nose again, hiding his mouth. “Pushy, pushy. Expecting me to be at your beck and call just cause I sucked your dick.”

“Just fucking be here,” Party mutters, and slams the door.

They don’t look back to watch Ghoul leave. Can’t go back can’t go back. Don’t look back. Focus on the future.

It feels uncomfortably like something Better Living would say. But no, Party thinks, back in the Battery it was all about the present. No one thought ahead to the future. The attitude of casual carelessness was carefully cultivated.

Kobra greets Party with raised eyebrows and a questioning smirk when Ghoul drives away with a squeal of rubber on old asphalt, but doesn’t comment on it except to say, “So does this mean you don’t hate each other now?”

“Fuck off, interfering motherfucker, you tryna be a pit viper or some shit, policing the goddamn station,” Party hollers over their shoulder as they stomp into the kitchen.

They might not  _ hate _ Ghoul, but that doesn’t mean they have to like him either. Just because they hooked up once doesn’t mean they’re suddenly best friends for life, till death do we part, all that sappy shit.

He might have saved all their skins a couple times and seems to be at least moderately interesting underneath the layers of grumpy attitude and mood swings and penchant for lighting things on fire or blowing them up. Even if he  _ is _ an obnoxious little fucker with a smart mouth, he’s talented and he’s intelligent and he’s a good asset to have, Party can grudgingly admit to that much. While still keeping in mind that he’s also a complete bitch. That part doesn’t have to change just because he gives good head.

Party Poison wakes up from a nightmare where their brother had meticulously sliced open his own palm like he was taking apart a machine, carefully cutting each tendon and picking out each small bone, pressing the knife down against the veins in his wrist until they burst like dandelion stalks and blood bubbled out onto his skin.

“Fuck,” Party says succinctly, rubbing their eyes.

Jet is still sleeping soundly, but Kobra is awake, watching them silently. “Kid, hey, Kobra,” Party hisses, trying to whisper, “hey, c’mere, c’mon over here.”

Kobra obediently crawls over towards them until he’s curled against their side, one arm flung across their chest. “Nightmare,” he says; it isn’t a question. Party shudders at the reflexive memory and tugs him closer.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Kobra says. He exhales, breath warm, and snuggles into their shirt. “’S okay.”

Party laughs, shaky, breathy. “’M sorry about the—the whole thing with Fun Ghoul. Tonight. I shoulda told you I was going somewhere instead of just going all Area 51.”

Kobra hums in assent.

“Next time I’ll find you and you can come with me,” Party says. It’s better with Kobra there, breathing quietly in their ear, warm and heavy and comforting. “We can go fuck some shit up.”

“Jet,” Kobra mumbles sleepily.

“He can come too. It’s be fucking killer. Jet can be our getaway driver and you can be our marksman and I’ll be the eye candy. Those dracs won’t know what hit ’em.”

Kobra hums something unintelligible into Party’s shirt. Party goes back to sleep.

Party slams the door to the office. The resulting bang isn’t nearly satisfyingly loud enough, and they almost slam it again. It’s tempting. Instead, they storm into the kitchen, where Kobra and Jet are eating breakfast—Power Pup and juice packets. “Where the fuck is Fun Ghoul?”

Jet and Kobra exchange a look. Jet shrugs. “Dunno, man. Sorry.”

Party seethes. “He could be selling us to the fuckin’ dracs right now . . . son of a  _ bitch _ .”

FUCK IT UP.

It’s too good to last, really. They definitely don’t suddenly become best friends for life—they argue and sulk and refuse to talk to each other until they make up and then argue again and everything goes around again. It’s really just the two of them (Kobra isn’t even mad at Ghoul for almost biting Party’s fingers off that one time, since it ended up being a hilarious story to tell afterwards), and it becomes a problem.

They both steadfastly ignore one another until they run into each other completely by accident, as Party’s coming back to the diner and pushing the glass door open, and Ghoul’s slouched in one of the booths with Kobra and Jet. There are papers—maps? spread out on the table in between the three of them.

Kobra looks up sharply when the door opens; the chime hasn’t worked in years, but Kobra has an uncanny sense of whenever someone enters a room. He starts to get to his feet, and says, “Party—”

“Look,” says Party, making up their mind suddenly, “lemme talk to Ghoul. You two clear off, we’ll yell atcha if something goes sidestreet.”

“You’ll hear it too, Poison’s  _ real _ loud,” says Ghoul nonchalantly, swinging his legs up onto the tabletop and crossing his ankles. Kobra makes a face, but he and Jet Star obligingly file out of the room, Jet shooting a glance back over his shoulder. Ghoul leans forwards and raises his eyebrows expectantly. “So, what’s the 411?”

“I’m not gonna apologize,” Party says, “because we both know that’s not how this works. But—Kid and I were planning to go to that one Mad Gear show out at the old whisky purification center in Zone Two in a coupla days. You’re more’n welcome to join us. For the record, this is me trying to make it up to you. And no one forced me to ask, either.”

“Aw, that’s real fucking sweet of you, Poison,” Ghoul says, grinning obnoxiously, “but I think I’m gonna hafta decline the offer. I don’t mix nicely with crowds, and I don’t get the feeling that you’d make a good mixer. Sure do appreciate the effort, though. Only eleven more steps to go, baby, think happy thoughts!”

Party grits their teeth and tries not to lash out with something stupid or irresponsible in retribution. “Yeah, it’s cool either way,” they say, trying to act unconcerned, like they really don’t care at all if Ghoul comes along or not. “S’fine if you’re busy with somethin’ else more important.”

“Somethin’ more important than going out dancing with you? Never,” says Ghoul. He’s grinning even more now. “I told ya, crowds an’ I don’t groove that well together. It’s like you think I’m lying to get out of spending time with you, huh? You think I’d do that?”

“Forgive me if I don’t exactly trust that you wouldn’t make up some bullshit excuse to sneak away,” says Party tartly.

Ghoul’s smile widens. It pulls at the scar on the edge of his mouth, making him look dangerous and enticing. “Only if you would sneak away too. You know there ain’t a thing in the world I’d love more than to take a long walk right along the beach with you, Poison, cross my heart and slit my throat and hope you die.”

“Right, so you can knock me out and steal my shit again,” says Party, irritated. “Stop playing games, cocksucker.”

“I’d much prefer you conscious,” Ghoul says, and winks. “See you around, baby.”

Party doesn’t watch him go—probably he’s just going to find Kobra and Jet—but as soon as he’s gone, Party knocks their head against the tabletop and groans loudly, long-suffering and exaggerated. That helps, as does burying their head under some of the loose papers and imagining strangling Ghoul to death.

Coping mechanisms, Party thinks bitterly, and fights back a laugh.

Ghoul is apparently completely determined to be a mystery that fucks with all their heads, that’s  _ fine _ , but he seems to enjoy messing with Party in particular, which is a lot less fine, because Party just wants him to stop being so fucking infuriating and explain some shit or something like that.

He’s definitely a loner, but somehow not at all like Cherri Cola or any of the other wanderers who don’t really have a settling place. Even Show Pony has Doctor Death-Defying’s station where they always circle back to, and the three others have the diner and all that goes along with it. Fun Ghoul doesn’t seem to have  _ anywhere _ .

It drives Party crazy, trying to figure out how Ghoul works. He still doesn’t really seem to  _ like _ Party, even with the weird back-and-forth thing they have going on.

He gets along decently with Kobra, which makes Party selfishly, horribly jealous, even though they know it’s not like they have any sort of claim or what-fucking-ever on Ghoul—because even if they could, things don’t work like that in the Zones, and it’s fucking  _ fine _ .

Well, it’s not, but it’s not like they would ever tell their brother  _ that _ , though. There are some things you just can’t tell anyone.

(They complain to Show Pony later, though, and Pony just pats them obnoxiously on the head and acts all smug, like a motherfucker.)

Party has already acquired a reputation as a charmer, a smooth-talker, a sparkling desert sand cat, what with their penchant for Hyper Thrust parties and Mad Gear shows and shiny glittery things. Fun Ghoul seems like just the opposite on the surface—kinda grungy, kinda filthy, kinda down-to-earth as long as he’s not in one of his manic destructive moods. If he is, everyone knows to get out of the way; he isn’t all that choosy about what or who he burns through.

Besides, Ghoul is determined to keep his secrets. He won’t tell Party how he got that scar on his mouth, no matter how much Party begs and tries to convince him. Party threatens to ask Show Pony, and Ghoul just laughs. Party storms off, but doesn’t actually ask anyone else, because they want Ghoul to give in.

Party doesn’t  _ like _ mysteries, when they’re not the one controlling the situation; they want to know everything there is to know about Ghoul.

“You do realize the irony of sayin’ that sorta thing when your whole fuckin’ image revolves around the idea that you’re a shiny little mystery yourself, dontcha, baby?” is all Ghoul says when Party finally complains outright that he’s too much of an enigma.

“Aw, baby, you don’t need to save the suspense for the honeymoon tryna keep me interested,” Party croons, irritated as hell.

Ghoul just flips them off with infuriating ease and then proceeds to ignore them until Party grudgingly gives up and goes to complain to Show Pony again.

Pony’ll laugh at them, sure, but there’s always something comforting about it, somehow.

The scar isn’t a story that Fun Ghoul likes to tell.

There are a lot of insults that zonerunners have for Better Living’s brand of hell—for those born in the city, for those who stay in the city, for the dusty old Battery itself. One of the worst insults is something you can call someone if they’ve been acting kind of like a drac, or even kind of like they work for Better Living— _ smiley _ .

Like the happy-face symbol Better Living Industries stamps all over everything in the city like a brand.

It used to be just a term for the worst kind of traitor, for a joy who would willingly go back to the city and enter that damnation of a rehabilitation program that Better Living advertises as heaven on earth, but now it’s more of a generic term for someone you don’t like. But it definitely hasn’t been dumbed down in its potency—it’s still basically the worst insult that there is to be found in the Zones.

Someone who sides with the enemy.

There are also some particular gangs of zonerunners, the not-so-nice ones with sharp teeth and sharper knives, that will give Glasgow grins, Chelsea smiles, to people they mark as traitors.

Just as an added insult, they’ll slice you right open.

Sometimes they stop once they’ve left their mark on just the face, but oftentimes they’ll keep cutting.

Fun Ghoul had already built up a reputation out in the desert long before he was ever dragged off into the city—he learned the hard way that he had to have his own back, and he figured out pretty quickly that he had an aptitude for blowing things sky-high, so he used it to his advantage. He carried the materials to make explosives wherever he went, along with a waterproof pouch that had very nearly cost an arm and a leg at a swap meet, where he could keep matches and other fire-starters.

He was a lot friendlier back then, a lot more willing to trust.

A lot younger.

But he still had a reputation, and he was close with Show Pony, which meant that Doctor Death-Defying would mention his name on the airwaves from time to time. So when he vanished abruptly, people started to wonder—had he been ghosted? had he been taken? had he gone willingly?

He had been taken, as unwilling a captive as there ever was, and fought tooth and nail with everything he could, but it hadn’t mattered in the end anyway.

Even years afterwards, he didn’t know why the drac patrol that had grabbed him hadn’t ghosted him at first draw. For a long, long time, he thought he would have preferred it if he’d gone down fighting to the last, instead of being tied up like a fucking rabbit in a trap and dragged along into the Battery to be poked and prodded and stuffed full of pills.

It was the worst fate imaginable, for someone who had grown up out in the Zones; nearly everyone like him would have rather been dusted right there and have it be done with.

Ghoul learned not to trust anybody no matter how much they promised they had your back by the time he got back from the city, shaken and terrified and betrayed.

He was maybe sixteen at the oldest, probably younger, and as soon as the news started to hit the radio waves that Fun Ghoul was alive and kicking as much as he had ever been, the rumors of his betrayal started up afresh.

He doesn’t want to blame Show Pony.

Show Pony likes to gossip.

It didn’t take long before someone figured out he had been in the Battery, and that didn’t help his image to sweeten any—he already wasn’t universally loved, what with his temper and his scowl and his penchant for setting things on fire. Watching something burn and knowing he had caused that was just comforting, that was all, but not everyone seemed to see it in that way.

Ghoul was made to be an outsider. He took care of himself as soon as he was old enough to leave Birdie and the others, and vanished into the Zones, sticking with anyone that didn’t see a kid as too much of a liability. He knows he didn’t just spontaneously appear in the desert, although that’s how it feels—like he was birthed from the place where the sky and sand meet with no other purpose than to  _ move _ .

He doesn’t like small spaces. He doesn’t like being touched.

He was sixteen when some bitter badluck gang of joys held him down on his back and carved away at his cheek until he stopped screaming and kicking and just lay there helplessly, body limp and eyes blown wide with fear and pain, hoping the pain would be over quicker if he didn’t fight it.

In the end it was, but that wasn’t why.

The joys holding him down only got done with half of the cutting before someone—Show Pony? Doctor Death-Defying himself? Ghoul wasn’t conscious or lucid enough to tell who was wrapping an arm around his shoulders and helping him stagger blindly to his feet showed up and chased them off, someone even the most hardass of zonerats knew better than to mess with, then took Ghoul inside the nearest safe house and cleaned out the wound and painstakingly stitched his skin back together.

The stitches weren’t pretty, and the blood still dripping steadily from between his teeth didn’t make the job any easier. There wasn’t any anesthetic, but Ghoul thankfully blacked out around the time the heated (and therefore sterilized) needle stabbed through his flesh for the first time.

When he woke up again, it took almost a week before he could eat anything other than liquids and small amounts of Power Pup, chewing on one side of his mouth and trying not to throw up from the pain. He succeeded a little less than half the time, but it was the progress that really counted.

His teeth were all fucked up, too; he could barely smile properly with both ends of his mouth anymore, but he tried his best to give a bitter, sardonic grin. It was his brand to uphold, after all.

Eventually all he was left with was the scar—an ugly little reminder that he’s not always in control. Ghoul fucking hates the thing with every molecule of his being. It’s one of the reasons why he wears the bandana so often, even when he doesn’t need it to keep the sand out of his mouth or anything.

He got the bandana at a swap meet, one of the first ones he went to after he got back from the city, horribly, sickeningly aware of how everyone was whispering and staring at the jagged red line along one side of his mouth.

There were always stalls and booths and tables with various cloths to cover your face for protection in the desert, but Ghoul didn’t give a damn about that, he just wanted everyone to stop fucking  _ staring _ . He picked that bandana in particular because it had an ugly grinning mouth on it, complete with big sharp teeth, and he liked that.

Everyone who’s been in the desert for long enough to know about the custom of slitting flesh when you catch a turncoat red-handed can tell what happened as soon as Fun Ghoul takes off the bandana he wears to cover the lower half of his face most of the time if he can get away with it.

But Party fucking Poison doesn’t seem to know better, not yet, and for some reason hasn’t tried to ask anyone else about the goddamn thing. It’s almost like Party  _ wants _ the challenge, even welcomes it.

Sometimes Ghoul thinks he likes that. It can be fun to get Party all riled up and try to make them lose their temper.

But most of the time, when he thinks about it, Ghoul just feels impossibly tired of everything there is in the world. He’s so sick of fighting against everything, so sick of the desert trying to break him down until he’s nothing at all. He mostly just wants to be left alone, without Party and the others trying to complicate things.

Nobody wants to talk about it in too much detail, because everybody knows that the Battery has eyes in the sky everywhere, but people are scared. Drac raids are increasing in frequency and severity, and the number of ghosted zonerunners is steadily climbing. The dracs are cutting off all trade between them and the joys, and they’ve taken to targeting children when they come across them. Swap meets and arranged sales are pumped to the line with tension; everyone has one hand on a blaster and one eye on the horizon for the telltale dust storm that accompanies a raid. Uneasiness saturates the entirety of the desert, bleeding over into everything.

It doesn’t help that Party Poison keeps having nightmares, but at least the fucking Phoenix Witch is mostly staying out of the dreams for now.

Party and Kobra are driving the stolen car out in Zone Three when they figure it out for good.

They’ve stopped at one of the million Dead Pegasus stations to barter for some fuel—the group pit vipers manning the station don’t look happy to see them, their faces closed off, and they drive a harder bargain than should be expected for just one gallon of gasoline. “Tight-fingered motherfuckers,” Kobra hisses under his breath, then stops walking and just stares ahead.

At first Party thinks he’s only looking at the magazine stand and opens their mouth to make some teasing comment about Kobra’s apparent affinity for murderporn skin mags—there are a few issues of  _ Shiny _ and  _ Murder _ on the racks—but then they see the newspaper.

The Battery City Times— _ the only newspaper you’ll ever need _ .

The front page has their faces on it.

Party says, “Well, fuck me,” and grabs the newspaper off the stand. “Guess we made the headlines after all, huh, Kid?”

The article is mostly mundane and routine—a warning for citizens that there are known terrorist threats, the same thing they’d both read a thousand times back in the Battery—but now it’s about  _ them _ , now it’s their faces plastered right on the front of the fucking Battery City Times with red X’s across them like they’re already dead and gone and the rest is just a formality.

There's the usual B-L sign outside the Dead Peg station: RECLAIMED - FUTURE SIGHT OF SOMETHING BETTER! with the same fucking smiley face.

“We got on a fuckin’ wanted poster,” says Kobra, grabbing at the newspaper to try to see better. The writing across the top says EXTERMINATE in bold block letters. “Shit. Guess that explains the pigs driving off the highway, yeah? It was all cause of us.”

_ Rebel brothers indoctrinated into a criminal lifestyle after having been previously convicted of suspected terrorist activity, calling themselves the “Fabulous Killjoys,” sighted in the area around Battery City _ .

Party flips through the newspaper, then snorts and tosses it aside. “There’s a fucking interview with that motherfucker, like he’s a goddamn celebrity hero or some shit. They got a hit out on us and it makes them famous, slimy corporate sons of bitches, like they can just swallow a pill and earn instant fuckin’ fame. Inject it into your fuckin’ veins.”

“Party,” says Kobra.

He doesn’t say anything else, but Party knows what he means. He means  _ will you be okay? _ and he means  _ is this going to be a problem for us? _ and he means  _ are you ever going to tell me why Korse wants you dead so much? _ Party doesn’t answer any of the questions, verbal or nonverbal, just kicks bitterly at the newspaper lying in the dust, then turns around and stomps back towards the car.

They’ve got the fuel now, and they’ve got the wheels underneath them, so they can get hopping again.

The only frequency they’re able to tune in to on the way back to the diner is a station half-buried in the static, with a voice neither of them recognize saying over and over, “You are listening to silence. You are listening to silence. You are listening to silence.” Kobra doesn’t want to admit how much it creeps him out, but Party doesn’t complain when he switches off the radio entirely.

The knowledge that it’s  _ them _ that the dracs and exxies are chasing after isn’t easy to swallow, because it means they’ll have to stay on the road for a while until things cool down. It means they can’t waste too much time in one place for fear of being trapped. It means leaving Show Pony and Doctor Death-Defying behind, and leaving the diner and the radio station behind, and that’s the worst part of it.

Neither of them wants to have the conversation. When they finally do, somewhere during the ride back to get their stuff from the diner, it’s brief and uncomfortable. Jet’s face wasn’t marked for extermination, after all; he doesn’t have to take extra precautions. In fact, Party points out, it might be safer for Jet if the two of them left  _ him _ alone. Kobra settles the matter by saying, correctly, that Jet would hunt them down and ghost them both himself if he ever found out that they had even thought about the idea of leaving him behind.

“I’m gonna miss this shitty fuckin’ place,” Party says, kicking moodily at one of the cracked leather booths. “It might not be much, but it’s home.”

Now their home is nomadic, roving, living out of the car like they’re  _ real _ motorbabies. Jet identifies it as a Firebird Trans Am, probably tricked out in all sorts of ways they don’t have time to explore. They can’t risk something happening to their only reliable method of transportation; they wouldn’t last an hour on foot.

The one change they do make to the Trans Am, Korse's former shitbox, is messing it up a bit more, as a special little form of  _ fuck you! _ to the dracs and the Battery and to Korse in particular. Party trades some spare gasoline from the Dead Pegasus next to the diner for a couple of cans of spray paint, and colors the iconic spider sprawling across the hood, black and many-legged. The spider is Mike Milligram’s legendary call sign, and he was the original killjoy; Party wants Korse to see them and know that they’re still kicking with no plans on sinking any time soon.

Party wants him to suffer.

They camp out in the desert most nights, sleeping in the Trans Am or on the ground in body bags, avoiding lighting fires even when it’s freezing because the flickering firelight could give them away. They mostly stay ahead of the dracs, but that doesn’t help them to feel any better; they keep running into the aftermath of raids, burned-out buildings and twisted chrome shells and occasionally occupied body bags. Kobra makes the mistake of opening one of them once, and immediately staggers backwards, retching at the sight and the smell of rotting flesh.

They leave the bodies alone after that.

Sometimes they find masks or blasters that the dracs have somehow overlooked in their raids, and Party always picks them up and packs them away in the trunk of the car. None of them know when they might next make it back around to the mailbox, but Party doesn’t want to leave anything behind.

The first time they find a survivor of a drac raid, they arrive at the scene too late or too soon depending on how you view it—there are still two dracs standing over a crumpled body dressed in blue and purple and gold. They’re firing their blasters at the body, over and over and over; the person on the ground spasms with each jolt of electricity but doesn’t, can’t, get up. Kobra takes out the dracs because he’s the second-best shot and Party’s driving. The dracs’ punching bag is still breathing when they get to her—there’s blood trickling from her mouth, and it’s obvious that her ribcage is crushed, probably from being kicked with steel-tipped regulation boots, but she’s still breathing. She tries to say something, to form words; her mouth moves helplessly and she coughs up another mouthful of blood, twitching in the aftershocks of laser burn, her eyes rolling back into her skull. Her hair is almost entirely burnt away from her scalp, the skin underneath red and shining and ugly. Party Poison touches her forehead gently, the closest thing to an apology they can give, then shoots her, once, in the side of the head.

“Before everything went all pear-shaped, Mr. Cordite brought us news of everyone’s favorite storybook monsters, the three blind mice themselves, running for their life before B-L-I chops off their tails with a butcher knife. Maybe it isn’t their destiny to snip-snap their way into a trip-trap, but every little mousie that thinks of biting the hand better watch out for the danger prowl. The cats are hungry for dinner and on the lookout, and without a crew to watch your six-six-six, you’ll be dead meat for the feline cookout. It’s time to dig in deep and stay nested. Special shout out to the D-L’s favorite ghastly goblin—got a couple runners lookin’ for ya, sweetheart, since your static went dead. Call me. Weather report coming up, but before that we have the gossip section for all you tabs out there. Stay off Tranquility during any current currency—quite a few video nasties out there looking to sink their claws into some rat flesh. Resurrection is still bombs-away; use caution past Z-3. Contemplation Lane is butter in the mouth of innocents—should be crystal clear. Guano is all milkshakes for the time being, not a whiff of latex in the air. Keep your squawk box close and your gun in hand, tumbleweeds. Today is January 11th, 2037. This is Doctor Death-Defying, the one and only, bringing you the weather report.”

The Trans Am is burning rubber down the long stretch of Resurrection Road, streaking towards Zone Two, when they see the fight going on up ahead, blurry smudges of white,  _ dracs _ , and something flickering and orange-red,  _ something burning _ , and Party slams their foot down on the brake with a squeal of tires on asphalt. It doesn’t do any good to interfere, in situations like this, Party thinks, starts to open their mouth to suggest turning around and driving the other way, when there’s a screeching  _ boom! _ of something exploding and Party jerks the wheel to the side and spits out, “Motherfucker!”

The car—and it was a car that was blown up, that much becomes obvious when the Trans Am jolts to a stop next to the mess—is fucking ruined; the dracs that were unlucky enough to catch the center of the explosion are in pieces, blood and guts and scraps of charred white fabric scattered across the scorched sand. Party scrambles out of the Trans Am, slamming the door behind them.

Most of the car is still burning, melting, a skeleton of twisted metal and chrome. Party is a few yards away when the back tires explode from the heat and the pressure, and the force of the blast lands them on their back in the dirt. “Fuck,” Party growls, spitting out a mouthful of dust as they stand back up.

“Kobra,” Jet yells, “grab the fucking med kit—”

Jet is kneeling where the hood of the car would have been, and there’s an intact body next to him, lying on its back. Jet has one hand pressed against the body’s forehead; when he lifts it to take the med kit Kobra brought him, his palm is soaked in blood.

The exploded shell of the car—

Party turns back towards the wreck. The paint is bright, shocking yellow, with black racing stripes.

The world tilts sideways and Party manages to stay upright as they stagger back over towards the Trans Am. Jet is still crouched over Fun Ghoul like he might still be alive, might just be unconscious.

“We gotta fucking go,” Party says. Everything is blurry, wavering like the heat is finally getting to them; they don’t know if they’ll be able to drive. The blood is still gushing from a scrape across Ghoul’s forehead, staining his shirt, his neck, Jet’s hands.

The left front tire explodes with a loud  _ bang! _ and they all startle at the noise. “Fuck, fuck,” Jet says, still leaning over Ghoul. He hesitates for only a second before he gathers him up and starts carrying him towards the Trans Am as though he weighed no more than a ragdoll. Ghoul’s fingers twitch with the jostling.

There isn’t a discussion. There isn’t an argument. Party gets back into the front seat, shaking their head to clear the fuzziness threatening to crowd across their vision, and pushes their foot down on the pedal.

Jet is still digging through the med kit; he has Ghoul sprawled in the backseat. He manages to find some antiseptic wipes underneath a roll of gauze and half a tube of burn gel. They’re valuable tender in the Zones, all medicine is, but Jet doesn’t hesitate this time when he tears one open and presses it to the gash on Ghoul’s forehead.

“I don’t think he got zapped,” Jet says. Party glances at him in the rearview mirror and sees him tugging up Ghoul’s shirt to skim his hands across his chest, checking for laser burn; they look away quickly. “Scraped up from the bomb, yeah, but we can’t do shit about internal bleeding or whatever anyway.”

“If he bleeds all over my seats I’ll fucking finish the job, I fucking will,” Party threatens. They can’t keep the image of the burning car from flitting treacherously behind their eyes.

Ghoul wakes up long after the Trans Am has turned off Resurrection Road and onto the Endless Highway, still speeding towards Zone Two. He flails enough that he almost falls into the footwell, then tries to swat Jet’s hands off him and groans, “Too much fucking C-4, fuck  _ me _ .”

“Good morning to you too,” says Jet dryly, but there’s relief in his voice. “Dontcha know what they say about using styrofoam in an EPS?”

“Yeah, still not a goddamn wave head, Starboy, I’m not stupid,” Ghoul says, setting his jaw and glaring. “What the fuck.”

“I’d ask how you’re feeling, but I think I gotta pretty good idea,” Jet says. “Don’t worry, I’m pretty sure you’ll live, provided you don’t pull any more stupid stunts. You want us to drop you off somewhere?”

“Fuck,” Ghoul says again. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, then curses and jerks them away sharply; the skin on his hands is raw and pink from the fire. “Fuck! The car’s fucking dusted, isn’t she?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

Ghoul swears again. “Got nowhere to go, then. Real fuckin’ peachy.”

“We could just drop you off in the middle of Zone Six and you could make a run for the Belt and hope not to get all pixelated on the way,” Party suggests, saccharine-sweet but without real sincerity. Ghoul flips them off in the rearview mirror anyway, and slouches back in the seat, cradling his hands against his chest.

“We’re not going to fucking do that,” says Jet firmly. “That would be a fucking death sentence. Idiots.”

“Get off the highway, motherfucker, it would take more’n a whole fucking  _ squadron _ of dracs to get me to the wall,” Ghoul shoots back, insulted. “I’m fuckin’ shiny. Do whatever the fuck you want to me, not like I got anything better to deal with. Shoulda just left me for the fucking goblins.”

“You should stay with us for real this time,” says Kobra from the shotgun seat, twisting around to look over his shoulder. “Maybe fourth time’s the charm, yeah? I always did think that four was the best number.”

Ghoul mulls it over for a moment, chewing on his lower lip. There are still spots of blood streaked across his skin, despite Jet’s doctoring.

“Fine,” he says eventually, folding his arms, stubborn. “Whatever, I’ll fucking do it, hold the applause. Not like I got anywhere better to be anyway. What, you motherfuckers got cold feet now?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s a fucking celebration. Gimme your hands,” Jet says patiently, reaching for them. He squeezes out some of the tube of burn gel to cover Ghoul’s palms, ignoring his eyeroll, then starts wrapping the burned areas in strips of gauze.

“Hit the gas, then,” Ghoul mutters, flexing his fingers under Jet’s ministrations. “Let’s get the fuck outta dodge.”

They keep moving. They keep driving. The foundation of the setup hasn’t changed now that they’re four instead of three.

While the constant running can be fun sometimes—it’s exciting even at the worst of times, and the music carries them onwards, and they encounter all sorts of thrilling situations—but mostly it’s just exhausting.

It’s better for Ghoul, who’s used to being on the move, but never to this extreme, never for this amount of time, and never with three other people.

Tempers are short and tension is running high.

They’re still all basically kids, after all; birthdays are hard to keep track of out in the desert, but it hasn’t even been an entire year since Party and Kobra left the Battery, so even Party Poison can’t be any older than nineteen, almost twenty at the most.

They’re all too young.

Neither Party nor Kobra likes to talk about the way things used to be, back in the city. The only time Kobra voluntarily brings it up is late one night, when they’re still driving because they can’t afford to stop moving. Party’s half falling asleep at the wheel and Kobra’s slumped in the shotgun seat with both his and Party’s blasters resting on his knees, running his fingers absently over the battery packs. The others are asleep in the back.

“Sometimes I wonder,” Kobra mumbles, then hesitates and glances over his shoulder in the backseat at Ghoul and Jet; both are still apparently sleeping. Jet is snoring faintly. “Remember when you were into going to those museums and shit, back in the Battery, and I got all spooked and ratted on you?”

“Yeah,” says Party, guarded. “Why?”

“Just. Sometimes I wonder if we wouldn’t have ended up out here without me not knowing when to shut my trap.”

“Nah,” Party says absently, “maybe woulda bought us some time, that’s all. Woulda ended up here in the end anyway.”

“You wouldn’ta been put on all those pills in the meantime, though,” Kobra says, steadfastly avoiding making eye contact by looking out the side window. He’s not wearing his sunglasses for once, but Party can’t see his eyes in the darkness anyway. “Kinda feels like it’s my fault, at least.”

“Hey, honey, it ain’t anybody’s fault—we both did whatever shit we thought was the right shit to do at the time,” says Party, leaning over and ruffling Kobra’s hair fondly. “‘Sides, you were the one with the music, remember? We both got ghosts to carry. Now stuff it and lemme drive, dumbass.”

Rumors continue to spread of the four Fabulous Killjoys, the ones who Better Living wants dead, the ones who Better Living can’t find. Kobra usually rides shotgun and messes with the radio, turning the dials to chase the faint melodies that occasionally break through the steady crackling waves of static.

The first time anything comes across that’s clear enough for them to make out any words, it’s nothing more than a snippet of Doctor Death-Defying’s voice: “—on the run now, dust angels, so grab your children and look out for burning buildings—” and then there’s nothing but the same static again.

“Shit,” says Kobra. He’s wearing his dark sunglasses again, one arm dangling out of the open side window. There’s sweat beading on his forehead; he wipes it away with the back of his hand.

_ Seasons _ don’t hold as much weight out in the desert in the aftermath of the bombs, but the nights have been getting steadily colder. They can’t spare the gasoline to keep the engine running overnight, and most of the time it’s too great of a risk to light a fire for warmth, so they’re reduced to sleeping in shifts, three of them huddled up in heated body bags while the other shivers and keeps watch.

One morning they wake up and Kobra is sick.

They don’t have a thermometer, but his skin is warm enough that it’s a safe enough guess that he has a fever, and he’s sweating more than usual even though he claims through chattering teeth that he’s  _ cold _ .

Illness in the desert often leads to death, simply because of the lack of advanced medicine and access to treatment; whether it’s heatstroke or radiation poisoning or just one of the mutated viruses that cling to the sand, it’s often a death sentence.

If the choice is death or begging for help from the city, most will choose the former.

They don’t have much water to spare, but Jet helps Kobra drink as much as he can. He slices open one of the stumpy cacti growing around the area in the sand and soaks his bandana in the sticky juice, pressing the cloth to Kobra’s forehead to help keep him cool. Kobra coughs, his throat dry, and curls in on himself, shivering.

“Fuck,” Party hisses under their breath, and stomps over to the nearest Joshua tree.

Kicking the tree trunk doesn’t do much except make their foot hurt, but they can’t stand feeling useless. They kick the tree once more for good measure, then sit down next to their brother and brush his hair off his forehead. After a thousand different nightmares of Kobra dying in a thousand different horrible ways, this is almost anticlimactic. The distinct absence of blood and gore makes it feel more unreal than anything.

Kobra can’t die, Party thinks. He just  _ can’t _ .

That night they light a fire.

Party wants to stay awake all night, even though Kobra whispers hoarsely that they should get some rest. “Jet Star can fucking drive the fucking car,” Party snaps, then sighs and kisses Kobra’s hair in apology. “‘M worried, okay? Fuck, I won’t lose you, honey, c’mon.”

“’M not goin’ anywhere,” Kobra rasps. He reaches for Party’s hand.

They’re just so tired of constantly being on the alert, and on the run, and now Kobra’s sick and everything is so fucking fucked up. Party wants to go assault some of the trees again, but they also don’t want to let go of their brother for even a second. In the end, Kobra wins out over tree-kicking, and Party lets Kobra rest his head on their lap, running their fingers through his bleached hair, over and over. The repetition is soothing.

Kobra tells them again to get some rest, but Party doesn’t fall asleep until a while after Kobra does, curled up against Party’s chest, breaths coming raggedly. Party tries to stay awake for as long as they can, listening to Kobra’s breathing, making sure it’s still there, the rattling sound of inhaling and the wheeze on the exhale. In and out. In and out.

In and out.

Party wakes up when someone covers their mouth, and instantly goes still. It’s Ghoul; his eyes are huge in the faint light from the moon and the remnants of the dying fire. He holds a finger to his lips, and when Party nods, slowly removes his hand and jerks his head towards the cluster of Joshua trees to the left.

“I got your six,” Party breathes, and slides their hand cautiously down their leg to grab their blaster. The  _ click! _ of the safety catch is impossibly loud in the dark.

They can hear the faint rustling noise coming from the bushes now, branches cracking like something’s stepping carelessly through them.

In and out.

_ Breathe _ .

Party’s prepared to fire on sight, but Ghoul abruptly grabs onto their arm in warning; Party tries to pull away, but what pushes out into the open a few seconds later isn’t a drac or some wild animal, just a little girl with curly hair who can’t be more than five years old at most, stumbling across the sand and clutching a stuffed Mousekat doll to her chest.

Ghoul says, “Well, shit.”

The most they can get out of the girl is that she and her mother left the city and have been on the run ever since, and her mother got ambushed by a group of dracs (she calls them  _ vamps _ —city slang) but told the girl to keep going as far as she could anyway, and that she doesn’t have a name.

Well, she says she thinks she has a name, but when Party asks her what it is, she just scrunches up her nose and says she can’t remember. Her lower lip trembles when she admits this, like she’s trying not to cry, and Party looks alarmed.

“We’ll figure something out,” says Jet, trying to be somewhat reassuring even though he doesn’t have any idea how to comfort her. “In the meantime, you can be a motorbaby like us, see?”

She takes to Jet right away, thankfully, mostly because his hair is wild and curly like hers and it probably looks familiar. She doesn’t seem to like Party’s hair as much, which makes Ghoul laugh loudly until Party threatens to shove him into the fire and Kobra tells them both to shut the hell up.

Party stops right away after that; they’re still worried about Kobra, Jet can tell. Anyone with half a brain could tell, really. It might not be obvious on the surface that they’re related, but those two care for each other above all else.

Jet picks up the girl when her eyes start drooping, and she falls asleep against his shoulder still clinging to her stuffed toy. He pats her back clumsily, ignoring Kobra’s muffled giggling. It isn’t like any of them are even  _ trying _ to handle the kid.

He tries at first to help load the stuff into the car (she can’t have wandered too far from where her mother got caught, not after nightfall, so there are probably still dracs sniffing around the area), but Party just waves him away firmly and banishes him to go sit in the backseat with the girl.

Her elbows are digging uncomfortably into his stomach, and his legs are falling asleep underneath her weight, positioned awkwardly on his lap. He thinks he probably didn’t get the better end of the deal.

Kids are so much work. Occasionally visiting the Nest to hang out with Birdie isn’t the same as suddenly being saddled with a five-year-old. He wants to bang his head against the rolled-up window, but that probably wouldn’t be setting a good example.

Ghoul gives him the finger when he walks by the window, his scar making him look gruesome in the faint light of the still-glowing embers when he grins widely.

Jet sticks out his tongue.

Fucking fuck, he thinks. What the fuck is  _ kid _ - _ appropriate _ language?

Kobra finishes kicking dirt over the remnants of the fire, and the darkness abruptly gets even more heavy and solid. Jet has never missed the stars more than he does right then.

Finally the others pile into the Trans Am. Kobra and Ghoul are snickering over some joke, probably at Party’s expense if the indignant look on their face is anything to go by. “Let’s fuckin’ move,” Ghoul groans, slumping down in the backseat, then shoots a glance over at the girl, still fast asleep on Jet’s lap. “Uh, let’s . . . freaking go . . . somewhere. I don’t fucking, ugh,  _ freaking _ know.”

Party snorts loudly.

The girl wakes up when the engine starts, blinking and rubbing at her eyes. She doesn’t seem to remember where she is at first, but then her eyes land on Jet, and her mouth curves downwards.

Fuck it, Jet decides. He refuses to let his pride be hurt by a five-year-old. That’s just too much right now.

He twists out of his jacket and wraps her up in it when she starts shivering and crying silently for her mother; she’s only wearing jeans and a light shirt with a flowery pattern on it, not even any shoes to cover her feet. He tries to remember what his mother would do to stop him from crying when he was a little kid, but all he can remember is gentle hands resting on his head and a wordless musical voice in the background.

He does his best to rub her back soothingly until the tears stop and she’s only sniffling occasionally into his shirt, then looks up beseechingly at the rest of them.

“Guys, what the hell are we thinking? We can’t raise a kid, it wouldn’t be safe for her out here.”

“We could take her to the Nest,” Kobra suggests from the front seat, then coughs.

“No,” says Party sharply. “If we take her to the Nest, the dracs find the Nest, and Birdie and the kids don’t deserve that. Same deal if we take her to the diner, or to Pony and Doctor D, or even to Chimp and Newsie—we don’t want dracs trailing her and getting anyone else into jeopardy.”

“Well, it’s not like we can drop her off anywhere else!” Jet hisses. “What are you suggesting, Party, just leaving her on the side of Route Guano for the Witch to deal with?”

“Oh, you wanna be the one to teach her how to hold a gun? How to ghost a fucking drac? We can’t raise her, she’s a  _ kid _ .” Kobra shoves his sunglasses on, even though it’s still pitch-black outside, and looks out the window.

“She’s gotta learn eventually,” Ghoul mumbles from the backseat; his voice is muffled by the bandana. “I vote we keep her, why the fuck not? Not like we can do her more harm keeping her with us for a while than dropping her off somewhere else.”

Jet waves his free hand frantically. “I don’t have a fucking clue how to raise a child! I don’t know what she needs to eat, or if I need to teach her how to read, or how much she knows about the Zones, or—fuck, guys, we can’t do this, it’s so fucking side-wavey.”

“Nah, it’s straight-up batshit,” Kobra says suddenly, “but hey, could be fun, right?”

“We’re talking about her  _ life _ here, not some fucking video game!”

“Jet, keep your mask on,” says Kobra, amused. “It’s dealing with a kid, not single-handedly taking on the entirety of the Battery without any zaps to your name. I’m sure it can’t go too horribly Costa Rica.”

Jet groans and goes back to running his hand along her spine.  _ She isn’t a cat _ , he scolds himself,  _ stop fucking petting her like you’re expecting her to start purring _ .

She snuggles a little closer, one of her small hands curling around the zipper of his jacket.

He’s so fucked.

He doesn’t have a goddamn clue how to make  _ that _ sort of sentiment appropriate for a—for a freaking  _ kid _ .

Party drives for the rest of the night, until the sun is creeping over the edge of the horizon, a dull red smudge in the distance. The girl is still asleep, curled up against Jet’s chest, her breath warm.

Ghoul drifted off against the rolled-up window a while ago, but he jerks awake again when Kobra starts coughing, wet and ragged. “Fucking hell,” Ghoul rasps, rubbing his eyes, “don’t fuckin’ infect the rest of us, patient zero.”

“Whatever. You’d deserve it,” Kobra mutters. Party shoots a glare at Ghoul in the rearview mirror; they’re tapping their fingernails restlessly on the steering wheel.

“We gotta get her some shoes,” says Jet. She must be freezing. It might not be subzero in the desert at night, but the temperature does drop drastically when it gets dark, and the girl is tiny, tinier than Ghoul, who’s always cold. And she won’t be able to walk over the hot sand for long without something covering her feet.

Ghoul fiddles with the hem of his bandana, twisting the loose threads back and forth and back and forth, rolling them between his fingers. “’M not saying for sure,” he says slowly, not making eye contact, “but I mighta heard that there’s supposed to be a swap meet out in northside one pretty soon. If we wanna risk going that close to the Battery.”

Party frowns. “What else is out in that area?”

“The Loose Wire,” says Jet. His mouth feels dry; he swallows. “I know some people.”

“Oh,  _ do _ you?” Ghoul’s voice is positively gleeful, even when muffled by the cloth. “Fuckin’ A, dude. You know Kiss Cam?”

“Who the fuck is Kiss Cam,” says Party.

“A motherfucking goddess,” Ghoul says fervently. “Been in the music scene since forever and even before that. She used to front Massive/Awesome before their bassist got all dusted up. Shinier than you’ll ever be. Prettier, too.”

Party makes a noise of complaint.

But the girl needs basic supplies—a toothbrush, a shower, some shoes. They’re able to get most of these things from Tommy Chow Mein, but the rest...

"I know a gal," Jet Star says.

Party raises their eyebrows. "Yeah?"

"Drive us out to Z-1, Poison," Jet repeats. "We'll be looking for Kiss Cam at the Loose Wire."

The Loose Wire is a jumbled monstrosity compiled of several decomposing RVs stacked together. A scrawny kid wearing green sunglasses and a pink straw hat is lounging in a soft plastic deck chair outside, a zapper resting across his knees.

"Staytcher colors," he says flatly, when the Trans Am rolls to a stop and the joys hop out.

"We're looking for Kiss Cam," Jet says. "Heard you were the place to be if some newbie undergrads are hoping for a bit of help."

"Aces high," the kid says, leaning back lazily. "Who's askin'?"

"Tell her Jet Star needs her help."

The kid's eyebrows shoot up. "No mosey! Cam's mentioned you a mille-feuille if a day, Jet Star. This your crew?"

"Sure," says Jet Star. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "Some warmers for the kiddo here. Maybe a coupla c's. Kid's got some sorta infection I was hoping Kiss Cam'd be able to take a look at, on account of being so close to Battery City. I know how the in-n-out lines run."

"Name's the Dead End Kid," says the kid. He sticks two fingers in his mouth and whistles, sharp and piercing. "She'll be out inna pop."

True to the Dead End Kid's word, one of the windows on a side-ways RV cracks open a moment later, and a woman sticks her head out.  Her hair is buzzed short and there’s blue paint smeared across her eyelids, matching her electric blue lipstick. She narrows her eyes and appraises them one by one, finally settling on Jet.

“I know you," she says. "Jet Star, came from Rosie Laserbrain’s goddamn charity work innit. And that’s Fun Ghoul, right? Running with killjoys these days, huh? And you two red-liners must be Party Poison and the Kobra Kid.”

Kobra frowns. “You’re the owner?”

She tilts her head to the side, appraising them. “Yeah, I’m your man, that’s me—Kiss Cam.”

Party tilts their head to the other side in mimicry, somewhere between mocking and impressed. “Is that an invitation?”

“Aw, for you, shinybaby, it can be anything you want,” Kiss Cam says, and before anyone else can react, she grabs Party’s face in her hands and kisses them full on the mouth. Party seems surprised, but they kiss back enthusiastically, and their eyes are wide when Kiss Cam finally steps back and licks her lips. There’s bright blue lipstick smeared across Party’s mouth.

Jet clears his throat pointedly. “So, uh, could you help us?”

She seems to consider the idea for a moment, then shrugs. “Why not. Your friend here’s a good kisser,” she says, and Party preens. They still haven’t wiped off the lipstick. “’Kay, whaddya need? Juice, zaps, a place to stay nested for a while? Long as you got the c’s, I got the goods.”

“She  _ kissed _ me,” Party hisses, still looking dazzled. “With  _ tongue _ .”

“Your  _ mom _ kissed me with tongue,” Ghoul retorts. He rolls his eyes.

Jet Star and Kiss Cam are still talking.

“Used to run with some high-cloud names back in the Stacks.”

“The Stacks?” Ghoul raises his eyebrows. “That’s Inner Zone slang.”

“You’re in the Inner Z’s, ain’t you, boo?” She grins, showing her teeth. “Knew you killjoys’d recognize it. That’s our specialty, helping newbies get a leg up once they blow out the motherboard.”

"If you could nab us some filters," Jet says. "Might as well set up rebreathers, since we're headed out circum-wise."

"Pal down," says Kiss Cam. She turns and hollers, "Kid, grab a coupla sets of gas mask rubber tubing, hey?"

With the girl warm and fed and occupied playing in the gravel in front of the Loose Wire, there's no prolonging the wait for the inevitable conversation: Should we try to find her mother? Should we try to keep her here? What if she grows up and wants to go back to BC to look for her mother? Should we tell her that her mother could be a drac (and therefore possibly out to kill her)? Should/could we prevent her from going back to Battery City if she wants to go?

“We should get Doctor D to send out a signal,” says Jet. He’s watching the girl gather smooth stones in her hands. “See if anyone’s looking for her.”

“The venomous duet and their merry little band of ghouls and goblins . . . shout-out to anyone lookin’ for a little firecracker, a bottle rocket about yea-high, who ran away from Mom and Dad over at the end of the world a couple days back. Doctor’s orders are to check the lost and found for a curly-haired tumbleweed running with the Fabulous Killjoys . . . something to be said for family, for turning the music up loud in these troubled times. Now, the lights are all flipped down and the ghosts are sweeping up the dance floor, so it’s time for the traffic . . .”

Month day year. The usual.

“What did he just call us?”

Party Poison is obviously thrilled at being called fabulous. Fun Ghoul, on the other hand, seems a bit confused (possibly more annoyed than anything else) because, well, he isn’t exactly a killjoy.

Things are pretty great for a while after that, just driving all around and only stopping when they pass a Dead Pegasus station to refuel and swap gossip with the pit vipers, listening to the radio and singing along and having the time of their lives. For a while, everyone is happy. It feels weird, to be genuinely happy, especially in this middle of all this disaster and decay.

“I got us a deal on the next Dead Pegasus a coupla miles up ahead,” says Kobra. He’s messing with a tangle of wires and circuits in his lap, what looks like a gutted Vend-a-Hack and the remnants of an old blaster battery pack. “Fifteen gallons of fuel for only a hundred carbons—took forever to bargain that. Guess it turns out there are some upsides to being famous.”

“ _ In _ famous,” Ghoul says. “How far to the Dead Peg?”

Party squints at the dash. “Better be within bout twenty miles, or we’re shit outta luck.”

“It’s like ten, I think. I can CB ahead to the vipes, if you think that’d help?”

“Nah,” says Party easily. “Just up ahead on sixty-six, right? Shouldn’t be a problem, Kid. Shift up the static and see if we can get some tunes playing in the meantime.”

“Quit bossin’ me around,” Kobra grumbles, but he turns up the volume on the radio and messes with the dials until the faint, crackly sound of music trickles through the layers of static. “Oh awesome, Hot Chimp!”

“Fuck no, she only spits gossip and shit,” Ghoul whines, kicking at the back of Party’s seat until Party curses and glares at him in the rearview mirror.

“Well, right now she’s playing music, so you should shut the hell up and listen to it, asshole,” says Kobra, rolling his eyes. Ghoul aims a kick at the back of  _ his _ seat, but it glances off Jet’s shin instead, and Jet gives him a wounded look.

There are two pit vipers at the station, standing outside by the pumps. The first pit viper has his arms crossed, displaying his impressive collection of colorful tattoos, and the second pit viper is wearing cut-off jeans that showcase in full his dusty leather boots, tipped with metal spikes.

Party mentally catalogues them as Arms and Legs, respectively.

“Like your tats,” Party says casually, resting the tip of one finger against their lower lip and pouting slightly. “All fancy-like. Musta hurt to get all that ink, huh? Almost as much as it’d hurt to get kicked by those clunkers.”

Arms grunts and looks over at Kobra skeptically. “Who’s the chick? Thought we’d be meetin’ up with the legendary Party Poison, not some dolled-up dust angel in a sparkly skirt.”

Party just smiles, sickly-sweet. “Oh, baby, you’re gonna get the best of both worlds.”

“You’re Party Poison? Nobody ever told us Party Poison looked like a bitch-bot.”

“Well, I sure am flattered by the comparison, but I could fuck you better than those plastic capsules of batteries,” says Party, and jerks their head at Kobra. “Unfortunately for you, we only want the juice today. Price is a hundred carbons for the lot?”

“Hold up now, sweetstuff,” Legs says, pointing at the two of them. “Sure ya wouldn’t be willin’ to work out some arrangement to lower the price?”

The disgust in Kobra’s voice is evident when he speaks; it must be deliberate. “One hundred for the fifteen gal, and that’s final. No further negotiations.”

The pit vipers exchange a look. “Well, ya see,” Arms says, scratching his chin with the barrel of his gun, “seein’ as we’re the ones who’ve got what you need, you shouldn’t be the one makin’ the demands round here, sweetheart.”

Party gives a Kobra a look of warning and anticipation - almost excited at the chance to use their power-pack zappers - but just then, Ghoul sticks his head out the back window and hollers, "Yo, Humpty and Dumpty, fuck right off, wontcha!"

Kobra glances back at him. "You got rep with these bolt-heads?"

"Knew a guy who knew a guy," Fun Ghoul says, instead of explaining.

But they get the juice in the end, and so there's not much else to talk about.

They get to spend a while being the kids they never really got to be, basically, with the addition of the usual whirlwind of murderous dracs and gang fights and the potential for a whole lotta trouble. The trouble just seems to find them, really.

But in the meanwhile times, there's plenty of good to focus on. Kobra trades a vamped-up power pack at Tommy Chow Mein's in exchange for an old polo camera, and sticks the holo-pics on the dashboard of the Trans Am: Fun Ghoul showing her how to use a blaster - because even though she's just a kidling, she'll have to learn eventually; Jet giving her a ride on a motorbike with her wearing his helmet, visor up, slipping down onto her small shoulders; the girl showing off her new pair of check-marked shoes from a swap meet out in Zone Four; the girl leaning out the open window and shouting while the Trans Am speeds down the dust road - Party Poison yelling for her to poke back inside before she falls out and gets stolen by a dust-storm; the girl and the Kobra Kid sticking out their tongues and making faces at cans of Power Pup; the girl snuggled up in Jet Star's lap next to the warmth of the open Trans Am hood - too risky for a fire, with all the drac sightings in the area - and they're all telling stories, so many stories, every story ever told.

“Fuck,” the girl says, and sticks out her tongue.

“No!” Party says. “No! You can’t say that sh—that kinda stuff.”

She folds her arms. “Ghoul says it all the time,” she complains.

“Ghoul’s a fu—uh,  _ Fun _ Ghoul is an adult and a bad influence and can do whatever he wants,” Party says. No one ever said raising a kid would be this difficult. “You get to do certain things when you grow up, s’just how things work.”

“ _ You _ say it too,” the girl points out mulishly. “All the  _ time _ .”

Party rubs their face, defeated. “Ah, god damn it. Y’know what, kiddo? Here’s an actual lesson for you. Rule number one is fuck what they think. You can say whatever you wanna say, okay? If anyone tries to tell you thatcha can’t, you spit right in their fuckin’ faces and say—this is important—you tell ’em,  _ fuck you! _ and you keep your chin up high.”

She grins at that. She’s missing one of her front teeth. “Yeah!”

“Havin’ fun?” Jet asks, giving Party a look like Party would have completely forgot the unspoken No Corrupting The Girl rule.

Party winks at him. “Yeah, we turned up the track real loud. The motorbaby learned some new words—hey, kiddo, wanna tell this mother hen whatcha learned?”

Jet looks worried, which Party thinks is unfair, but he waits expectantly.

The girl gets a look on her face that can really only be described as devious. “Heck!” she pronounces, deliberate.

Party slaps their forehead and groans as dramatically as they can manage, and the girl bursts out laughing, bright and happy.

Korse makes an appearance again, and it doesn’t end well; they all get pretty beat up, and one of the dracs even kicks the girl in the ribs before Kobra shoots it several times (even though he knows that it’s a waste of battery). That’s rough to take; none of them want the girl to get hurt.

Korse is using Party’s blaster. The first time they realize this, Korse hasn’t painted over it or anything, so they can see the purple paint and the glitter.  _ PARTY POISON _ . It’s meant as an insult. It is a very effective insult.

The next time, he’s painted over it, covering the color and glitter and personality with blank white paint. That’s almost worse.

Party gets a new weapon, of course, but it doesn’t feel the same.

The hulking metal god is looming over them again. KEEP RUNNING, the massive voice booms.

Party Poison shivers, wrapping their arms around their chest. The cold wind is whipping them to the bone; they're standing on top of a barren hill, looking down at the Battery spread out below, lights twinkling innocently. An eerie green feeling slithers past, wrapping around their spine, twisting up into their ear, hissing soft and sweet and silken.

_ KEEP RUNNING _ .

Kobra finds them painting their blaster, in the faint light of the early morning. Their hands are covered in red. It looks like blood, bright and sticky.

“Fucker, are you—is that  _ hair _ dye?”

Party shrugs. “Didn’t have anything better.”

“Dude,” says Kobra, appalled. He thinks,  _ you’re _ supposed to be the artistic one! and Party must understand what he doesn’t say, because they snort and look down at their stained hands. “I’m gonna get you some real paint.”

“Spray is  _ fine _ , Kid,” Party says firmly, but Kobra shakes his head.

No, he thinks. Something even better.

In the end he trades several hours’ worth of coding work for a sixteenth of a gallon of bright yellow paint, the closest to red that he could find on short notice at Tommy Chow Mein’s store. Party is drawing something black and spiky on their own arm when he returns with the spoils.

Kobra tosses the tin of paint onto the ground beside Party. “Is that kanji?”

Party hums without looking up. The Sharpie falters for a moment on the crooked curve of a character. “Yeah,” they say vaguely.

You always were better with writing, Kobra thinks. He could speak Japanese as well as any other Battery City citizen, but Party was much more adept at the calligraphy. “Sorry it’s not red,” he offers.

“Nah, s’fine,” Party mutters. “Didn’t really care about the color, I’m just—sick of purples. And specially for the fucking phaser.”

A couple of days later they drive right into an ambush outside of Tommy Chow Mein's secondary property, the Paradise Motel.

While it's hardly unexpected, it still means that they have to be extra cautious after that, and it’s exhausting for everyone. They take turns driving, take turns sleeping, and take turns guarding the girl, even though she pouts and complains that she doesn’t need to be guarded.

“I wanna fight with you guys,” she begs, tugging on Party’s arm. Party groans.

“Look, even if you don’t wanna stay outta the firefight for your own sake, do it for ours, cantcha? We worry boutcha, kiddo, all of us.”

She looks shrewd. “Even Ghoul?”

“Even—what the hell,” Party says, then turns to yell at Ghoul, “hey, cocksucker! Quit making the motorbaby think you don’t care about her, you piece of shit!”

Ghoul yells back, “Fuck off, Poison, I ain’t your fuckin’ toy, she knows I don’t hate her!”

Party opens their mouth again to yell something else, but stops when they realize the girl is giggling, holding her hands over her mouth to muffle the sound. “Meanie,” Party says, and starts tickling her until she’s writhing and giggling helplessly. “Tryna make us fight cause you think s’funny.”

“It  _ is _ ,” she wails through breathless gasps of laughter, wriggling all over, “your face is all funny—”

Party stops the tickle attack but sticks their tongue out at her instead. “My face is  _ not _ funny, you take that shit back.”

“Nuh-uh!”

“Uh-huh!”

“ _ Nuh-uh! _ ”

“Uh-huh, do it or—or—or  _ else _ !”

“I swear to the Witch,” Jet Star snaps, hands on his hips, “one of you is an actual five-year-old and one of you is the motorbaby.”

Luck and gasoline both run out eventually. The nearest Dead Pegasus station is empty when they get to it, devoid of people. The usual crew of pit vipers manning the station—a motorcycle gang known as the Monkey Kings—are nowhere to be found. The fuel is still there, though, and it feels fucking sick to be relieved about that, but it’s what they really need.

The telltale rumbling of engines comes just as they’re finishing filling up the tank. Party swears and slams their hand against the roof of the Trans Am so hard it leaves a faint dent in the metal.

Kobra grabs the girl and almost shoves her into the car and slams the door shut hard, despite her sudden protests that she wants to fight too this time.

The first bone-white car stops in front of the pumps, and Korse steps out, coat billowing behind him.

He’s upgraded his look—same shaved head, same knowing smirk, but he’s wearing a fancier shirt and nicer boots, somehow exempt from the layer of dust and sand that clings to everything in the desert. The blaster is the same, though, the familiar purple paint and glitter spelling out Party Poison’s name along the side.

He clicks the safety off, but doesn’t aim the weapon at them, just looks over at Party and raises his eyebrows as though he’s expecting something.

“Lookin’ shiny, old man,” Party taunts, gesturing mockingly at the white ruffles running along the front of Korse’s shirt; Ghoul snickers loudly and obnoxiously from behind them. “They letting you play dress-up now?”

“I’m not the only one here wearing a costume,” Korse bites back, his tone sharp and cool, words clipped. “Is the mask an element of your fantasy persona, or just a demonstration of childlike immaturity?”

“Somethin’ in between the two,” says Party. “Keeps the sun outta my eyes sometimes too, but that’s just a bonus track. You should get one—maybe I wouldn’t hafta see your ugly mug so often.”

“Charming.” Korse’s lips thin. “This sudden shift in attitude might be influenced as a result of your kidnapping and subsequent inability to maintain your usual medication schedule, so I’ll be more willing to allow insubordinations to slide, but my personal opinion won’t mean anything back in the city.”

Party grins dangerously. “You still think I was kidnapped? Motherfucker, I left on my own.”

“What could possibly have enticed you to leave your entire life behind and attempt to join a dangerous cult of known terrorists?”

“You wanna play mind games? Fine, we’ll do it your way.” Party tilts their head to the side, silently willing Kobra to understand what they’re thinking. “I didn’t leave my life behind, that’s the catch. I brought everything that mattered to me. Me and my brother and my friends and the kid, we’re what counts. You got anybody that matters to ya, huh? You should try it sometime. Really makes you think long an’ hard about what the world is.”

“And what is the world?” Korse is still smiling, but he doesn’t sound amused. His grip is tight on the stolen blaster.

Party shows their teeth in that sharp fuck-you smile. “Fucked,” they say, and Kobra steps out from behind the Trans Am and starts firing at the dracs.

God fucking damn, Party thinks, dizzy with elation. It always feels so fucking good to have Kobra at their side.

The girl screams, soundless from inside the protection of the car, and covers her ears with her arms.

Kobra takes down the first drac with his first shot, but there are more getting out of the cars, readying their weapons. Party shoots haphazardly in Korse’s direction, and when Korse ducks to avoid the laser blasts, turns and scrambles over the hood of the Trans Am and into the driver’s seat, turning the key and yelling for the others to  _ fuckin’ hurry the fuck up! _

Ghoul is the last to get in, sliding into the shotgun seat just as Party floors the accelerator and the car kicks up dust, speeding out of the gas station with a squeal of rubber tires against concrete. Ghoul twists around and shouts, “Kid, gimme your blaster, c’mon!”

“Dude, fuck no,” says Kobra indignantly, but he hands over his weapon anyway. Ghoul salutes him with it, grinning maniacally, and starts climbing out the window.

“What the fuck,” Party yells, and takes one hand off the wheel to grab the back of Ghoul’s shirt, trying to haul him back inside the car, “fuckin’—get back in here, fucker—”

“Trust me, motherfucker,” Ghoul shouts back, and braces himself against the dash; Party swears and spins the wheel, fishtailing sideways, knocking the others into each other. Ghoul is still leaning out the window, legs hooked around the seat for balance, and starts shooting at the dracs pursuing them.

Kobra grips the shotgun headrest and warns, “If you lose my fucking gun, I will fucking ghost you  _ so _ much the fucking Phoenix Witch won’t even be able to bring you back, Fun Ghoul, see if I fucking don’t.”

“Ghoul’s literally the worst shot out of all of us,” Jet complains, one hand braced against the door and the other holding onto the girl, “why is  _ he _ the one playing sharpshooter all of a sudden?”

“Because I fuckin’ called shotgun!” Ghoul yells, smug, and twists around even more so that he can grab onto the roof. The girl is hugging her knees in the backseat, eyes wide and frightened as she stares ahead out the windshield as though something will appear on the horizon to save them.

They’re driving around somewhere in Zone Six - rebreathers strapped on, all the way out close to the edge, skirting the edge of the danger of the radiation and the threat of the poisoned ocean to escape the danger of the dracs chasing after them - when they run into Agent Cherri Cola again.

At first they don’t even recognize him—he’s trudging steadfastly along the side of the road, head bent, and they’ve almost passed him entirely when Kobra makes a strangled noise and chokes out, “Stop the car—Party,  _ stop _ .”

Cherri Cola is smiling as Party slows down and pulls the Trans Am up next to him, rolling the window down only enough for Cherri to be able to speak to them.

“Greetings from afar, strangers,” he says, only raising his eyebrows faintly when the girl peeks out of the back window, curious. “I see you’ve got your crew close and your guns closer, just as it should be. And the rest is rust and stardust and we lose ourselves—how empty everything is, out in the Outer Zones these days. I don’t suppose you could give me a lift for a while, could you?”

“Yeah, sure, just hop in the back with the peanut gallery,” Party says levelly, glancing at Kobra, who doesn’t say anything, just frowns. “We got enough juice for a good long trek anyhow, why not add another monster to the mix. Nice nuclear tan you’ve got, by the way.”

“It isn’t advisable to traverse the Outer Zones without some form of radiation protection,” Cherri Cola murmurs.

Ghoul doesn’t look happy with this arrangement, slouching down in his seat and pulling his bandana up to cover his mouth, but Jet obligingly gathers the girl onto his lap so that Cherri can get into the backseat with them.

The girl stares at Cherri Cola with wide eyes until Jet Star places a cautioning hand on her hair and murmurs, “It isn’t polite to stare, motorbaby, you can just ask him if you wanna know something.”

She looks up at Jet, blinking comfortably when he doesn’t remove his hand from her head, then back at Cherri. “What’s your name? I don’t have one, I mean I have one but I don’t remember it cause I’m a killjoy, so everyone just calls me motorbaby.”

Cherri nods thoughtfully. “Sometimes it can be good not to have a name, so the white-suits don’t know how to find you. You’ve made a wise decision, motorbaby. And my name is something along the lines of Agent Cherri Cola, these days, although I’ve gone by a myriad of different appellations throughout the different stages of disappearance and reappearance and everything not confined to those.”

“Why’re you an  _ Agent _ ? An Agent of what? What’s a  _ myriad _ ?”

“Where do you need to go,” Party interrupts, flat. It doesn’t sound like a question, even when phrased as one.

“There’s a safe house a few miles up ahead, near Wolfsblood,” Cherri says, leaning forwards, “shouldn’t take but a few minutes if you’ve got the wheels underneath you, but for me and my own two feet it would be all day.”

He doesn’t thank them, at least not verbally. Gratitude isn’t usually expressed in such explicit terms, but rather through demonstration of actions.

Party glances over at Kobra, who’s chewing on his lower lip and looking out the window. He’s wearing his sunglasses again, his fingers tapping restlessly against the sun-warmed metal of the car door; Party’s come to understand that wearing the sunglasses means that Kobra doesn’t want to talk.


	5. Chapter 5

It’s still fucking awkward when they get to the safe house out by the edge of the desert, but it’s good to stretch their legs for a while.

“Welcome to Wolfsblood Beach,” Cherri Cola says, gesturing at the wall of metal that can be seen in the distance, stretching up towards the curving sky. “One hole in the steel and the ocean comes flooding down to wash us all away, even this far from the wall.”

“Great vacation spot,” Party says. It sounds sarcastic, but they’re staring at the faint gleam of the wall visible from far away like it’s going to burst wide open right in front of them.

They can’t stay for long. Without radiation suits or some other form of protection, they’ve only got about an hour. The girl has even less; it wouldn’t take as much time for the radiation to poison her.

The safe house could have been someone’s home a few decades before the Helium Wars, but now it’s run-down and leaning crookedly to one side, windows boarded up and roof sagging sadly. The paint is peeling; Kobra steps cautiously onto the porch and tears off a long strip of pale blue.

The porch steps creak when Party comes to stand beside him, looking appraisingly at the door in front of them. The doorknob is missing; the space where the knob would be has been stuffed with newspaper. There’s a sign nailed to the wood that proclaims, in faded white letters, WELCOME TO THE END OF THE WORLD.

“Welcome to the end of the world,” Kobra says, quiet enough that only Party can hear. Party smiles with one corner of their mouth and squeezes his arm reassuringly for a moment, then lets go.

“Always figured I’d be with you at the end of it all, Kid. Never really thought we’d have a real kid with us, though. Go talk to Cherri while you can—Jet-fuel can take the motorbaby inside for a nap or some domestic shit, and I’ll handle Ghoul.”

Kobra snorts. “Yeah, I bet you will.”

“Ye of little faith,” says Party cheerfully, patting Kobra’s shoulder and grinning that familiar crooked grin, then turns around, boots scuffing against the floorboards. “Hey, bitch, you got any plans for the immediate future?”

Ghoul looks up from the dusty area in front of the porch where he and the girl have been drawing something complicated and angular in the dirt. “You asking me out, Poison?”

“’M sure not telling. You accepting?”

“I’ll pencil you in for a long walk on the beach at the end of the world, baby,” says Ghoul, messing up the girl’s hair and avoiding her revenge punches, then shoves his hands into his pockets as he stands up and kicks dust over whatever he and the girl had been drawing. He grimaces and jerks his head towards the Trans Am, almost apologetic. “Might as well take the car out for a spin, keep a lookout, make sure we weren’t followed from the Dead Peg or anything.”

Kobra yells, “Don’t fuck in the car!” after him, just to piss Party off, and Jet makes a disgusted noise in the general direction of the two of them. “You got half an hour—have fun on your  _ date _ !”

“I’m gonna fuck your brother in  _ your _ seat!” Ghoul yells back, and spins around to flip him off with both hands.

Jet Star takes the girl into the house to raid the kitchen for drinking water and snacks, and—although he doesn’t say so—to give Cherri Cola and Kobra some privacy. Kobra follows as far as the hallway, torn between wanting to thank him and wanting to beat him over the head with a shovel. It’s a conflict he’s been really feeling rather a lot of, recently.

Fuckin’ desert making us all violent sons of bitches, he thinks bitterly, and stomps back outside to the porch.

Cherri’s leaning against the splintered railing, watching the dust clouds still settling from where Party and Ghoul drove the Trans Am out of the makeshift driveway in front of the house, fast and reckless. His skin definitely is darker, Kobra thinks, then scowls. He doesn’t want to be focusing on stupid, useless things like the fucking shade of Cherri’s radiation-induced tan. They only have half an hour.

The driveway is really nothing more than dusty gravel instead of the usual dry sand and sun-hardened clay, but it almost feels domestic, like it’s something special that needs to be protected. The few stunted trees scattered around the area are a dullish red color, gnarled and leafless.

It fucking sucks, Kobra thinks. The whole thing fucking sucks.

It’s just him and Cherri Cola on the porch. He can hear the girl’s giggling coming from inside, and the lower sound of Jet’s laughter in response. His throat aches, almost like he’s getting sick again.

There are deep scratches carved in the wood of the railing; Kobra runs his fingernail along one of them. They could have been made with a knife, some sort of blade, something metal. They could have been made with claws, jagged pieces of bone. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything.

“You care about Party Poison very much,” Cherri says quietly, like it’s some big fucking revelation that Kobra would give a shit about his brother. It occurs to Kobra then that Cherri might not even know that he and Party are legitimately related.

“Yeah, they’re great,” Kobra allows. Fuck, he thinks, now he’s reluctant to talk about Party at all for fear of giving something away. “We’re family, so we stick together no matter what. Not that you’d know what it’s like.”

Cherri sighs. “I have my own reasons for making my own decisions. Don’t blame yourself for feeling too much. Love is not a disease that must be cured. We have options, we have chances, and we have to choose what matters the most to us. So we choose love, we always choose love, because emotion is what makes us human. And that’s what Better Living still doesn’t understand.”

“I know that,” says Kobra, guarded. The clock is ticking away their remaining minutes. “And Korse wants me’n Party sliced into ribbons, and wave heads always seem to start shit with me, and the sun’s motherfucking hot. Tell me something new, why dontcha.”

“There’s old blood betwixt me and wave heads,” says Cherri sadly. “I ran with a rather unsavory crowd before I knew that the only thing I truly needed in my veins was the music and the melody. But that’s not the kind of thing that allows you to go easy—I’ve got the scars to prove it, and I did my time sweating underneath that big ball of fire in the sky.  _ Breaking rocks in the hot sun _ —” He hums a scrap of a tune, disjointed. “No?  _ I left my baby and it feels so bad _ —”

This is an apology, Kobra realizes. This is a way of apologizing.

He looks over at where Jet and the girl are now sitting together in the scraggly grass to the side of the building, Jet with his head bent obligingly while the girl decorates his hair with tiny blue sand flowers.

“ _ She’s the best girl I ever had _ ,” Kobra says, finishing the line. He turns. “Cherri—”

“Don’t apologize,” says Cherri Cola, and suddenly he looks exhausted. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his skin is somehow still pale and peaked, even under the heat of the sun and the nuclear tan. “Please, don’t apologize.”

“You were a wave head,” Kobra says stupidly, because it’s something to say instead of apologizing.

He thinks of the wave heads he’s seen, with their skin rotting off and their hair falling out and their eyes clouded. It seems a far cry from the person standing beside him.

Cherri just looks steadily at him. “I was,” he says. “I thought the sun was my god. I worshipped, I fell to my knees, I let the light pour through me until I felt my flesh was transparent and fraying at the edges. I got my high off the radiation that peeled my skin away from my bones and burned my blood, and even as I suffered, I longed for more.” He runs his fingers through his sandy hair and sighs again. “You were born in the city.”

“Yeah,” says Kobra cautiously. “So?”

“You’ve heard of wireheads? Battery City’s version of wave heads. Tapping directly into the gray matter with electricity, stimulating the brain into endless pleasure. We’re all fucked up, Kid. We’re all addicted to something. And you die with your mask on, you die without being known, and everything about you dies with you. That’s why we give our gifts of memories to the holy old bones of the Phoenix Witch when she comes rattling through the desert looking for all the little lost pieces of us. There’s an endless radio playing—you are listening to silence, you are listening to static and nothing-voices, and there’s no hollow places left.  _ Lift your skinny fists like antennas to heaven _ —”

“I dunno what you’re rambling about this time,” Kobra mutters, but he doesn’t look away from Cherri. “Dunno if I even believe in the Witch.”

“She believes in us,” says Cherri softly, “and that’s what matters, in the end.”

Kobra looks away, then, and glances back over at Jet and the girl, still braiding flowers in the field.

“You said ‘Battery City,’” he points out. “Everyone else just calls it the Battery, you know. Or the Stacks. But you didn’t say that.”

“Yes. Well,” says Cherri. “I was around even before it was Battery City. Forgive any slips of the tongue; it’s been a while since I’ve been able to discuss certain things without a public audience through the radio waves. I was illuminated on radio silence, but the static’s grown old—weary and wrinkled and well-worn. It’s almost time to shake out the amps and bring the radio back from its vacation.”

“You’re gonna do broadcasts again?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Cherri says evasively, and sighs like the world is ending; Kobra thinks, it probably already has. The timer is running out. “We’re standing here at the end of everything, and it’s the same sun, the same sky, the same sand. This particular story has been on repeat for a good while now.”

Party kicks up the wheels and puts the top down before they red-line it out of the beach. There’s nothing on the radio but endless glaring static, no matter how much Ghoul fiddles with the dials and curses and smacks the dash with his open palm.

“S’ okay, baby, we don’t need the music,” Party says, amused; they’re driving in a wide lazy circle around the old house, top down and wind fucking up their hair, keeping an eye out for rogue dracs or a stealthy patrol, counting the RECLAIMED - FUTURE SITE OF SOMETHING BETTER! signs they pass on the way. “Not like we were gonna set the mood anyway, huh? I seem to remember you sayin’ you’d fuck me in the car, that’s not exactly the most romantic of prospects. You want candles and fuckin’—fuckin’ flowers? S’ just fooling around and driving too fast, nothing special.”

“Way to make  _ me _ feel appreciated,” Ghoul complains, but he’s grinning even as he hits the dashboard futilely again. “I’d settle for you sucking me off later, I guess.”

Party sighs and whines, “Can’t I just pay a coupla c’s instead?” but they’re grinning too. The sky is blue and empty of clouds.

They finally stop the car next to a cluster of twisted and knobby Joshua trees, the wall—Wolfsblood Beach—reflecting the sun’s glare in the distance. The sun beats down on them, hot and bright, when they unpeel themselves from the leather seats. Party leaves the driver’s side door open, but walks around to the passenger’s side, leaning one hip against the car and waiting.

Ghoul groans as he climbs out of his seat and stands up, stretching his neck and yawning widely. “Fuck me, I didn’t think I could get tired of this shit, but just goes to show you learn something new every day.”

Party smirks and steps closer, resting their hands against Ghoul’s sides, backing him up until they reach the front bumper of the Trans Am; Ghoul drapes his arms helpfully around Party’s neck and allows himself to be led. “‘M trying really hard right now not to make a joke about takin’ you up on that offer,” Party says quietly, leaning forwards to press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, baby,” says Ghoul lightly, dropping one of his hands to grope Party’s crotch, “you’ve been trying really  _ hard _ , have you?”

“Didn’t think you’d be worried about getting it up,” Party says, mock-offended, and presses Ghoul back against the hood of the Trans Am, looping their arms around his waist and grabbing his ass. “Guess I’m losing my touch.”

“Haven’t touched me yet, asshole.”

“Mm,” Party says, and kisses him again, quickly, before pulling back. “We should get on that, then.”

Ghoul snorts and moves his mouth over to Party’s neck, tangling his fingers in their dirty red hair and pulling until Party moans and grinds down against his thigh. “Slut,” Ghoul says affectionately, nipping at Party’s earlobe.

“What d’you think I’d hafta pay old Tommy Chow Mein to sneak some lube outta the Battery?” says Party, voice low and self-satisfied, then licks their fingers and sticks a hand unceremoniously down the back of Ghoul’s pants, pushing him up onto the bumper of the Trans Am. Ghoul shudders and leans back against the hood, tugging Party down on top of him until Party settles in between his legs, shifting to rest their hips against his dick with just barely enough pressure, one hand cupping the back of his head.

“Fuckin’ romantic, you are, the others’d never believe me if I told ’em. Sure know how to treat a guy right, Poison, sparing no expense. Y’know, with the supplies we don’t have, so you can’t fuck me.”

“Fuck yeah I do, baby,” Party says, smug and self-satisfied. “’S fine, for now I’ll just blow you instead.”

Ghoul snorts. “Put your money where your mouth is, hotshot, and I’ll believe you. Or maybe your mouth where your hand is,” he says, and pushes his hips up against Party’s other hand, pressed between his legs.

“Cocky son of a bitch,” says Party fondly, but they rub their hand obligingly over the front of his jeans, curling their fingers around his dick through the fabric.

“If ya got it, flaunt it. Now shut up and suck me off.”

“Who’s the romantic  _ now _ ,” Party says, smirking, and rocks their hips forwards, leaning down to kiss him again.

Ghoul wraps his legs around Party’s waist and digs his boots into their back, grinding against them harder to get the message across. Party untangles him and pushes away, but only to move down the hood of the Trans Am until they can get Ghoul’s jeans undone and their mouth on the sharp curve of his hipbones, biting down and rubbing their tongue over his skin, hot and wet and not enough.

“Get on with it,” Ghoul gasps, trying to lift his hips, “fuckin’—fuckin’ get your mouth on my dick already before I fucking punch you,  _ fuck _ —”

Party lifts one hand to flip him off without moving their mouth from where they’re biting along the inside of his thigh, then slides their hand back down until they’re holding his hips in place again when they go down while Ghoul gets his fingers back into their hair and breathes in harshly through his nose.

“Kobra’s gonna kill us,” says Ghoul, then, “fuck, don’t fucking  _ stop _ , motherfucker!”

“Don’t mention my brother while I’m tryna blow you, then!”

“Maybe I wouldn’t if you actually fuckin’ got around to it, fuckin’ tease,” Ghoul hisses. Party just gives him a wicked smirk that isn’t at all helpful, but they get their mouth back on his dick, so Ghoul’s still counting it as an overall success. They really are good with their mouth, and they don’t pull off when he gasps and yanks at their hair and shoves his hips forwards until he must almost be choking them. Whatever, he’s lucky to find someone who swallows, that’s all.

Party goes to kiss him right away afterwards, so Ghoul grins against their teeth and murmurs sweetly, “Mm, you taste like jizz, baby.”

“I taste like  _ your _ jizz,” Party corrects him, and bites sharply at his lower lip until Ghoul shoves them backwards, still holding onto the front of their shirt with one hand so that they can’t go too far. “My turn, asshole.”

“You gonna let me blow you? Wouldn’t want to go against what your brother said, y’know, since I’m not gonna clean up after.”

Party goes back to mouthing along the line of Ghoul’s throat to hide any chance of a blush. “I like your hands,” they say, and grab Ghoul’s hands as if to prove the point. “Just fuckin’ jack me off before I get bored and decide to take care of it myself.”

“So romantic,” Ghoul croons, but he unfastens the buttons on Party’s jeans and shoves them down. “Won’t fuck me, won’t let me suck your dick—”

“Fucker, I  _ did _ let you suck my dick,” Party complains, then gasps and arches their back when Ghoul finally gets his hand on their dick, tightening his grip and moving his hand as slowly as he can. “ _ Fuck _ , keep doing that—don’t tell me you forgot the time when—”

“You were wearing a dress, course I didn’t forget,” says Ghoul, shaking his head. “Actually, I could use some of that lube right about now, huh.” Instead, he puts his free hand over Party’s mouth, and Party grins and licks it, sucking his fingers into their mouth and biting down on his fingertips. “I like it better when you’re blowing me, cause then you might actually shut the fuck up.”

“You just like it cause then you’re the one who’s getting off,” Party says accusingly. Ghoul presses two fingers of his other hand against Party’s mouth, and Party moans, sliding their tongue across the trigger-finger calluses. “Bitch, go fuckin’  _ faster _ , we don’t have all— _ fuck _ , we don’t have all day.”

“Needy piece of shit,” says Ghoul, but he obliges, and he lets Party lick his hand clean afterwards. “You’re fuckin’ disgusting.”

“You like it,” Party says, satisfied, and kisses him anyway.

Ghoul goes still a moment later, hands still holding onto Party’s face, thumbs resting on either side of their mouth. “Shh,” he hisses, and moves to lean into Party’s shoulder, turning his head to the side and kissing their cheek gently. Party runs one hand along his spine in a slow sweeping motion, up and down and back up again, and it’s distracting enough that Ghoul shivers involuntarily and has to force himself not to get lost in the touch.

“Don’t fall asleep on me  _ now _ , deadbrain, we still gotta get back to the others. No time for the afterglow, baby, not while we’re on the lam.”

“Trigger finger’s got an itch, asshole,” says Ghoul quietly, thinking of their blasters, all the way inside the Trans Am, resting uselessly on the seats in the patchy shade cast from the Joshua trees.

At least the doors are still wide open, key in the ignition, engine running quietly. To anyone passing by, they look caught up in each other, a happily distracted couple enjoying themselves on the beach at the end of the world.

“Hm,” Party says, and kisses him softly on the mouth, just once, then pulls back. “Shall we continue this in the car, then?” They’re playing along, but there’s a genuine question in Party’s eyes.

Ghoul steps back slightly. “Just a feeling I got,” he says, low, and grabs onto Party’s hand. Party inhales sharply, and Ghoul grins, pleased. “C’mon, baby, we don’t have time for that.” He tugs on Party’s fingers teasingly, and Party rolls their eyes.

Party hasn’t even shut the passenger side door completely when they see the dust clouds appearing in the distance—smaller and faster than usual. More than three, more than five, more than seven; it’s a whole fucking army of dracs heading towards them on death-white motorcycles.

“Fuck, fuck, motherfuck,” Party curses, slamming their fist against the dashboard, “we can’t lead ’em back to the others, not with the motorbaby, we gotta fucking deal with this shit show now,  _ fuck _ .”

“I fucking know that,” Ghoul manages to say over the roar of the wind, gritting his teeth. His foot slips and he fumbles with the clutch, stomps on the accelerator, and feels the engine groan as the Trans Am shoots forwards, wheels spinning in the dirt. Party grabs onto the door, the seat, anything they can reach, and spits out a curse from between their teeth as the car speeds towards the road.

“’S no use if we get ourselves in a fuckin’ crash-bang collision before we even get back to the others,” Party complains, but they’re on autopilot, with their weapon in one hand and Ghoul’s in the other, checking the battery packs. “‘M gonna just—” They gesture vaguely at the place where the roof would be with the hand holding the green blaster.

“Hang tight,” Ghoul says grimly, stepping hard on the gas, and yanks the wheel all the way to the side; the Trans Am kicks up dust and gravel as it turns sharply, and they can both smell the rubber burning when the tires skid sideways across the road. “Fuck, the pigs’re—not usually this close to the goddamn ocean— _ fuck _ , check the fuckin’ glovebox, there should be somethin’ in there to fix that little problem.”

Party gets the glovebox open and digs around; there’s all manner of things inside, ropes and weapons and snacks and empty plastic bags and stray wires and—“Bitch, when did you get this in there? And what’s this made from, a fuckin’ Vend-a-Hack?”

“I’m resourceful. Throw that shit out the window, dickhead.”

“Always so demanding, baby, I think I like it better when you’re begging for it,” Party says, but they flick the timer and hang halfway over the door anyway, hurling the makeshift bomb at the dust trails chasing after them.

They count it down— _ one, two _ , and then the bomb explodes, the heat from the blast washing back over them, along with a fair helping of dust and debris; Party spits a mouthful of sand out the window and wipes their face off with the back of their hand, wincing, then drops back into their seat. They can still feel the grit crunching between their teeth.

Ghoul is grinning, one hand on the wheel and the other on the seat as he tries to turn around to see the scene behind them. “Fuck, yeah. How many’d we get with that beauty? Fuckin’—four left, motherfucker.”

“Pyro,” says Party fondly, and drags one finger down Ghoul’s cheek.

Ghoul snorts. “Asshole.”

Party grins and licks across the side of his mouth, right over the scar, then twists around to aim both blasters back over the seats at the dracs still following them.

“We’re not outta the heat yet,” they say, firing off a few shots; most miss, but one lucky blast hits the front wheel of one of the drac’s motorcycles, and sparks fly everywhere, causing the drac to jerk away, gloved hands coming up to cover its mask or whatever else might be underneath, and the cycle careens wildly off to the side before finally crashing, wheels still spinning in the dirt and kicking up dust and debris.

“Fuck  _ yeah _ ,” says Ghoul again, glancing swiftly over his shoulder at the burning wreckage of the cycle. “Admit it, you like it.”

“I like that you like it,” Party says. They shoot at the remaining three dracs a few more times, then slide back into their seat and run one hand teasingly over Ghoul’s thigh. “Someday I wanna blow you while we’re tracing the Getaway Mile, see how long you can keep red-lining it while I go down on you.”

Ghoul snorts. “You say the sweetest things, really, I’m lucky to have you.”

Party waits until Ghoul shifts gears again and spins the wheel so that the dracs are directly in the line of sight, then shoots several more times; one of the cycles goes down, right in front of the second, and more flames spurt from the mess of twisted chrome and burning rubber and plastic.

That’s two taken care of, Party thinks triumphantly, and yells, “Fuck you motherfuckers, I’ll kill you all!”

The final drac drops off their tail soon after that, probably realizing that it’s a suicide mission to keep chasing them without backup, and Party and Ghoul exchange a satisfied look. Ghoul doesn’t let up on the pedal, but his shoulders relax noticeably, and he leans his head back against the seat, closing his eyes for just a moment while the road stretches out endlessly in front of them.

“We’re running outta juice after that little stunt, so it’s good those bastards trailed us almost to the beach right up here,” says Ghoul eventually, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “We can stop at the other Dead Peg, see if there’s any fucking pit vipers living at  _ this _ station willing to trade something for some juice. Maybe a bit of food.”

“Maybe a CB radio or somethin’ so we can let Jet and the Kid know we didn’t get ourselves all dusted up,” Party suggests dryly.

Ghoul just grins and says, “Speak for yourself, baby,” then licks his hand and rubs it over Party’s jaw, smearing the coating of dust and grime. Party nips at his fingers, but they’re grinning too; it’s hard not to, riding high on adrenaline and speed and the thrill of getting away safely. They run their tongue over their dry lips and taste the bitter, smothering flavor of dust.

Jet Star knows logically that Party and Ghoul are probably completely fine, and that he should at least be glad that they’re getting it out of their systems somewhere that he doesn’t have to listen to them argue or flirt or  _ worse _ , but it’s still nerve-wracking to have to wait for them to return.

He probably shouldn’t have let them take the Trans Am.

He’s going to strangle them both if they got the car damaged.

There's a tiny, stumpy succulent sprouting out from an old soft drink container. Jet occupies himself by examining the plant so he doesn't stress over Party and Ghoul.  They’ve been gone for long enough that he figures they probably decided to go all the way up to Wolfsblood Beach itself, where Zone Six decays into the Belt. On this particular side of the desert, the Belt is really just a strip of sand and an immense rusting metal wall that holds back the irradiated ocean from crashing down and flooding the whole area.

The radiation that stops you from continuing onwards isn’t in the desert itself, it’s in the ocean.

It’s the most unfair thing in the world, to be so close to all that water and not be able to use any of it.

Jet’s heard the stories of the zonerunners who tried, whether drinking the seawater or using it to clean off the endless filth of mud and dirt. The ocean water does what the acid rain doesn’t; it burns your skin right off if you try to swim in it. It’ll completely fuck up a shoddy paint job. And drinking any of the water is like drinking actual acid—it melts the lining of your throat, shreds the fabric of your lungs.

He’s never gone swimming. It isn’t fair that he’ll probably never get to.

He and the girl pass most of the time that they’re waiting for the others occupying themselves by rummaging through the various cabinets and drawers inside the house. “Look!” the girl says, shoving a moldering shoebox underneath his nose. She pulls the lid off to reveal a nest of batteries.

“Wow,” says Jet appreciatively, taking the box from her when she shoves it at him again. “If these work, we’d be set on radio power for a good long while. Good work, kiddo.” He gives her a salute, and she beams.

There’s an actual refrigerator in the kitchen, which the girl finds endlessly fascinating. It doesn’t work—there isn’t a generator or anything—but it’s a novelty anyway. The girl climbs inside, pushing aside the dusty wire shelves, and grins out at him. She’s missing one of her front teeth - probably knocked out during a firefight or something like that, he honestly can't remember. The past few days have been a riot of noise.

They find a few plastic containers of dehydrated snacks that insects or other animals haven’t gotten into yet in one of the cabinets, and the girl uncovers a closed box of crackers in a drawer next to the sink. She carries the armful of looted treasure triumphantly out the back door, the screen banging against the frame behind her, and settles in the little grassy patch of dirt off to the side of the house.

Kobra and Cherri Cola are still on the porch; Jet can hear their voices, but he can’t make out the words, and he doesn’t try to. He isn’t fond of eavesdropping.

He retrieves a half-empty bottle of lukewarm water from his bag—the rest of the supplies are piled in the backseat of the Trans Am (fucking  _ Party Poison _ and fucking  _ Fun Ghoul _ , he thinks resentfully), so they’re stuck with dried snacks, long-expired crackers, and room-temperature water.

It’s a feast fit for a fucking rat king, is what it is.

The girl tears open the box of crackers eagerly; she doesn’t even seem to mind that they must be horribly stale after all this time. Luckily they don’t seem to be covered in anything out of the ordinary—Jet remembers several drastic incidents with similar foods that had a thin coating of oil that had long since gone rancid. He doesn’t want to hold anyone’s hair back while they puke; he isn’t  _ that _ good of a person. Besides, it’s really gross.

The ground isn’t the most comfortable of picnicking spots, but at least there’s some tough and mostly brown grass to soften it somewhat.

The girl finishes with her portion of crackers (she sets aside the majority of them for Jet to eat, even though he protests, because she claims that he’s bigger and needs more food) and runs off around the side of the house.

Jet scrambles to his feet frantically, sprinting after her; he hates the fact that she doesn’t have a proper name. “ _ Hey! _ ”

He finds her sitting just around the corner of the building, pulling up grass and tiny fragile blue things that turn out to be sand flowers.

He sinks down onto his knees and gathers her up in his arms, pressing her to his chest and holding her tightly. She goes willingly into the embrace, clearly confused; her hands are smudged with dirt.

“Kiddo, you can’t just run off like that without telling me where you’re going,” he sighs, letting her go again. “I worry about you, okay?”

“Sorry,” she says. Her voice sounds impossibly small. She’s still clutching her fistfuls of flowers and dust.

He kisses the top of her head, right in the middle of her wild curls. “It’s all milkshake, you’re okay. You found flowers?”

She brightens at that and shows him how to pick the flowers closest to the ground so that their stems are as long as possible. He helps her tie the ends together, one after another, until they have a clumsy-looking chain of tiny blue blossoms and wrinkled leaves.

“S’ a crown,” she says, wriggling slightly, “s’ for you.”

She looks nervous, as though he might not like it, so he lets her place it carefully on his head and does his best to smile like he imagines royalty would smile. He can’t hardly remember anything from his own childhood that he could tell her, to make up some sort of relevant story like Party would be able to. He’s only read about kings and queens and nobles in history textbooks, years and years ago.

They’re still braiding the flowers and grass leaves together when Jet Star hears the familiar low growl of the Trans Am’s engine, coupled with the sound of tires spinning against gravel, and looks up.

Party gets out of the car first, kicking the passenger side door shut; Jet winces internally.

“We didn’t fuck  _ in _ the car,” Ghoul yells, slamming the driver’s door.

“If you got jizz on my upholstery I will ghost you myself,” Jet hollers back. The girl gives him a curious look, like she doesn’t know precisely what’s going on but she knows it must be something funny because they’re laughing.

“Don’t worry, rocket boy wonder, Poison prefers to swallow anyway,” says Ghoul loudly, and he grabs Party’s ass when Party rolls their eyes at his antics and tries to push him off the edge of the porch.

Jet briefly contemplates the rather appealing prospect of leaving the two of them behind for good.

Kobra is still standing on the other end of the porch with Cherri Cola; he groans and covers his ears with both hands. “Shut the fuck  _ up _ , both of you, oh my god, I don’t  _ ever _ wanna know those kinds of details.”

“Too bad too fuckin’ sad, stick bug motherfucker,” Ghoul crows, grabbing onto Kobra’s arms and trying to jump onto his shoulders, “you’re stuck with me, and it’s gonna stay that way for a good long while, cause we gotta motor right about—yesterday. Mom an’ Dad sent out a patrol that trailed us up towards the beach—got ’em all ghosted but one slippery bastard, but they’ve probably already called for backup by now.”

“Are you always this energetic after you get laid?” Kobra complains, looking disgusted, but he just shoves Ghoul off him and glances over towards the field where Jet and the girl are still sitting amongst the piles of plucked leaves and flowers.

“I am when it’s with your  _ brother _ !” Ghoul yells back.

Kobra gives him a withering look, then beckons wordlessly to Jet; Jet waves at him and shoves what snacks he can in his pockets, then pats the girl’s knee. “C’mon, motorbaby, time to grab the stick shift.”

Probably she’s too young to learn how to drive, he thinks, watching as she jumps to her feet and dashes happily towards the porch.

Probably.

The girl scrambles onto the porch, and makes a beeline for Kobra, clinging onto his legs like a monkey and making faces up at him while he talks quietly with Cherri. Jet can tell from the expression on Kobra’s face that he’s most likely asking again if Cherri would be willing to come with them, and he can tell from the expression on Cherri’s that the answer isn’t one Kobra is going to appreciate.

His suspicions are confirmed a few moments later when Kobra scoops the girl into his arms and stomps down the porch steps, looking stormy. He fumbles for his sunglasses and shoves them on, setting the girl on the trunk of the Trans Am and crossing his arms. “Can we fucking motor before the backup decides to show?”

The girl slides off the trunk and runs over to Jet, holding up her arms until he sighs and picks her up, letting her settle on his hip, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Is Agent Cherri Cola gonna stay here?” she asks in a whisper.

“I think so, yeah,” Jet whispers back. He brushes a few wayward snarls out of her curls with his fingers; he thinks vaguely that he should probably see about getting some sort of hairbrush for her.

He didn’t expect that Cherri would accept the offer to come with them, even when Kobra had tried to convince him the second time.

Jet has known people like Cherri Cola, and he knows that Cherri really is just more of a loner, that he needs his space and his time to himself, without anyone else there to interfere with his thinking.

It’s closer to what Jet himself used to do, before he found out that Party and Kobra were still alive and freshly out of the Battery, and it’s even closer to what Ghoul used to do—wandering alone in the desert, at the mercy of everything out there.

Kobra’s foul mood bleeds over into the rest of them, even Ghoul and Party, who stalks over to the Trans Am and slams the driver’s side door when they get in. Ghoul almost seems sympathetic; he punches Kobra’s shoulder and offers, “Hey, dusthead, I told ya the same thing a while ago, remember? Give him time, maybe he’ll come around. Gets lonely without anyone beside you.”

“Yeah, well, Cherri’s not fucking my brother,” says Kobra sourly. Ghoul opens his mouth like he wants to argue, or just say something else, but he evidently thinks better of it, because he just hip-checks Kobra and climbs into the backseat of the Trans Am.

So they leave Cherri Cola behind in the end anyway, even though Kobra doesn’t want to think about what could happen if the backup drac swarm finds the safe house while Cherri’s still there.

“Whites don’t do well when faced with all that water,” Cherri Cola says, as if he somehow understands. It’s almost reassuring, hearing the soft cadence of his voice, the gentle lilt of his words. “Wouldn’t want to soak up the radiation like a sponge.”

“A sponge,” says Kobra. His throat feels raw, scraped-out. He hasn’t seen a sponge in what seems like forever.

He puts his sunglasses on to cover his eyes when he finally slides into the shotgun seat. Party gives him a quick glance before they start driving; Kobra thinks, Party probably knows what the sunglasses mean. Sometimes he feels like he doesn’t even have to say anything ever again, because Party would be able to translate everything he doesn’t vocalize, to speak for him when it’s necessary. Sometimes he almost wants that sort of scenario. It would make everything a lot simpler.

The girl must notice somehow that Kobra is pissed off, because she climbs up into the front seat and onto his lap before Party can snap at her not to be a distraction, and gives him a tight hug, burying her face in his chest and clinging to his shirt.

Kobra doesn’t want to admit it, but the hug goes a long way towards helping make him feel at least a little bit better.

So then they keep driving.

They run into Korse again, and he targets Fun Ghoul specifically this time, which makes Party really fucking pissed off. If Korse wants to convince them of anything, threatening their brother and their whatever-the-fuck-Ghoul-is sure fucking isn’t the way to go about it. But then again, Korse isn't exactly the smartest knife in the jack's box.

"I honestly didn't expect you'd survive this long out here in the desert, without the proper stuffing to hold you up," Korse says silkily, looking directly at Fun Ghoul.

"Get gauzed," Ghoul sneers, 

Not that Korse could convince them of anything anyway, so it doesn’t really matter; Party’s just a drama queen.

Almost like retribution, they decorate the car some more, adding more words and pictures and all that sweet type. The girl draws on it a bunch, leaving hand-prints after dipping her hands in paint almost up to the elbow and Party always makes sure to tell her how fucking shiny and awesome it looks every time.

And they do get some occasional quiet moments—Party and Jet sitting on the hood of the car, watching the emptiness in the sky where the stars should have been, almost relaxed and almost peaceful; Jet and Ghoul passed out in the backseat with the motorbaby curled up between them, the whine of the engine and the rhythmic jolting of the tires against the road lulling them to sleep; stopping for a rare moment at a gas station to fill up the tank and chat with the pit vipers, Kobra and Ghoul giggling madly when they run across a magazine stand (with their snuff mags, of course) and Party complaining that they’ll corrupt the motorbaby; everyone repainting the car and telling stories all the while.

Although no one says it out loud, they all start to think that maybe they can live like this, constantly on the move, never really settling down. They miss the diner, though, so they decide to plan a visit. Besides, they want the motorbaby to meet Show Pony and Doctor Death-Defying. So they make sure to be extra careful when they drive back to the diner.

Pony is completely, ridiculously ecstatic to see them again (and immediately becomes best friends with the motorbaby), and even gruff old Doctor Death-Defying admits that it’s good to see them still alive. The motorbaby absolutely loves the record collection and the books (she knows how to read and sets about teaching Ghoul how when she figures out that he never learned—nobody to teach him, out in the desert).

“…Old juke I’ve been meaning to fix up for ages now…mind takin’ a look?...”

“Hey, Ghoul,” Kobra calls out, head buried in a mess of wires and circuit-boards, “hand me one of the Bowie records, wontcha?”

“What’s the picture look like?”

“S’ under  _ B _ , shouldn’t be too difficult to find—”

“The picture, Kid,” Fun Ghoul snaps. “What does it motherfucking  _ look _ like?”

Kobra understands suddenly and detangles himself from the remnants of the gutted jukebox he’s been messing with to look up. “Shit, dude, I didn’t know—uh, should be on the second shelf down, with like—it’s him with his hair all slicked back or some shit like he’s comin’ up from underwater or somethin’ like that—gold—”

Ghoul nods, rummages, then waves one of the records around. “This shit?”

“That’s the one,” Kobra confirms guiltily. “You know how to put it under the needle and all that?”

“I’m not a fucking idiot,” Ghoul scoffs, and stomps over to the turntable.

It’s only a brief vacation from being on the road, but they do stay overnight, which is nice. Party and Ghoul chill on the roof and probably hook up and argue and whatever else they always do, no matter where they are - Kobra doesn't really want to think about it. Jet shows the motorbaby the diner and all the hidden places that she can hide (he makes it into a game, but really, he’s just trying to make sure she’d be safe if the place got attacked). Kobra sulks and doesn’t want to talk to anybody, but eventually Jet coaxes him out of his funk by roping him into listening to the motorbaby’s impromptu concert (instruments: some old pots and pans and a stick) and applauding raucously when she’s finally finished.

They sleep holed up in the diner, curled up on wooden pallets or in the remnants of body bags or draped across cracked booths, huddled together for warmth. It’s almost like family, so long as you don’t think about it too much. It’s almost like coming home.

Despite the comfort of four other people breathing quietly in the dark, Party still can’t get to sleep no matter what they try—reciting lines of code backwards, mentally chanting Mad Gear lyrics, running through the easiest kill points on a draculoid, trying to will themself into unconsciousness.

Finally, they give up and slip out of the makeshift bedroom around to the back of the diner, where the ladder leading up to the roof is located.

There aren’t any stars, but the light from the neon sign flickers almost comfortingly, and that’s enough for the moment.

There’s already someone up there; Party can see the faint glow of a cigarette in the heavy darkness. Ghoul, then. Party crosses the roof anyway, boots making faint noises on the metal, and drops down next to Ghoul to lean back against the letters in the sign, right in between the empty space where the N would be and the E blinks in and out of brightness.

Party lasts a few more minutes before the silence is more than unbearable. “Can’t sleep either, huh? Nightmares?”

“Just the Witch tryna fuck with me.” Ghoul’s words are short, clipped. “It ain’t your problem, sunshine.”

The dull glow of Ghoul’s cigarette could almost be a distant star, if you didn’t think about it too much. When Party tries to think back, to compare it to the stars in the city, the memory is fuzzy and unclear. The stars don’t look right, even when they try to focus. Ghoul’s voice is even, but emotionless. The metal roof of the diner is still slightly warmed from the sun, cooling slowly as the night grows colder.

“Bitch,” Party says, leaning into Ghoul’s shoulder. Ghoul tenses, but he doesn’t move away or shove Party off him.  _ Progress! _ thinks Party triumphantly. “You’re family, course it’s my problem.”

“Cute.” Ghoul huffs a laugh devoid of any amusement and crushes his cigarette against the metal. “I ain’t a fuckin’ killjoy, that’s for sure.”

“You’re part of our crew, the hell you’re not a killjoy,” Party says, and twists around to bite down on his neck. Ghoul slaps them away but doesn’t argue when Party settles back down again.

“Fuckin’ vampire motherfucker, I swear to the Witch.”

Party hums contentedly into the hollow of Ghoul’s throat, and slides one arm around his waist until they’re half draped across his lap, their head resting on his chest.

Party Poison doesn't sleep much through the night, waking up even before the sun has bothered to shine down its fuckugly mug to boil up the sand dunes outside of the diner. After that, Jet Star wakes up first, Kobra second, Fun Ghoul third - sort of. Party flops down next to Ghoul and pokes and prods at his face, uncharacteristically smooth and relaxed in sleep, until Fun Ghoul wakes up spitting mad, swearing and trying to kick Party between the legs, but Party just plops down sprawled across Ghoul's chest, looking for some cuddling. Fun Ghoul huffs grumpily, but allows it, and dozes underneath Party's comfortable weight until the sun comes up at last.

When Party finally comes down from the roof and Kobra smirks knowingly at them (“Done so quickly, huh?” “Yeah, yeah, keep your fuckin’ mask on, asshole!"), the sun is already blinding bright and white-hot above, but the two of them get to spend a moment together, just the two of them, and that’s nice too. It’s been a while since it was just the two of them alone with no one else there, and while they wouldn’t want to exchange what they have with FG and JS and TG for anything, it can be nice sometimes, just to get a moment away from everything. It reminds them both of how they started out, with nobody in the world but each other.

“If we could get ourselves outta here, Kid, we’d be gone. Nothing more than a memory. If I thought we’d be better off past the Belt, or even back in the Battery, we’d already be there. Fuck everybody else, you’re all I got.”

Kobra shrugs. He's already got his sunglasses on, against the glare of the sun, but they're tipped down far enough that Party can see his eyes, so it's all shiny.

"Yeah," says the Kobra Kid, leaning his shoulder on the top of Party's bony skull. "But it's not that easy, anymore."

They spend a while longer on the road, then circle back to the motel; they’ve all been missing the luxury that is real beds. The beds at the motel might be old and moldy and covered in dust and other gross stuff they don’t want to identify, but they’re still a rare treat.

They learned from Show Pony that the motel has kind of been left alone by everyone else in the Zones, that it’s become the “unofficial property of the Fabulous Killjoys.” They all think this is hilarious.

The motel might not have running water, but it still has bathtubs and showers in some of the rooms, and if you’re willing to put up with the layer of dust and grime, they’re usable. Water is scarce, but Ghoul manages to scavenge half of a gallon jug of water—it’s not potable, so he figures Jet won’t completely lose his shit anyway—for a quick bath.

Or whatever passes for one, these days.

The shower curtain is moldy and tears apart when Ghoul gets a hand on it, cursing when he almost slips.  He hasn’t seen Kobra or Party all day, not since they got back early in the morning and Kobra locked himself in his room and Party fucked off to who knows where. Jet’s currently flat on his back underneath the Trans Am, trying to fix something complicated and covered in grease, the exact opposite of where Ghoul wants to be right now.

It’s too fucking hot out, and Ghoul isn’t a fucking wave head.

He goes to Party’s vacated room because he knows that the amount of filth stuck to the chipped porcelain will be less, since Kobra’s already scrubbed it down somewhat, earlier, to give the motorbaby a wash. They’re all trying to take better care of her than they take care of themselves.

The bathtub isn’t full of dirt like the one in Ghoul’s own room, but there’s a red stain all across the bottom. Ghoul leans closer, narrowing his eyes; it looks suspiciously like blood.

Blood that there wasn’t enough water to wash away fully.

He sits back on his heels.

The tub is covered in dull red splotches; it would have to have been a bad injury, near a vein or something. And dracs’ blasters don’t cause bleeding, much less this much. Either someone was hit with a shit-quality gun (possible), a non-laser weapon (also possible), or Party just got into an actual fucking fistfight (unlikely; that’s Kobra’s job).

He thinks about the last thing he’d said to Party—something stupid, probably. Party had been tugging moodily at their hair where the roots were starting to show up, saying something about having to—

“Motherfucker,” Ghoul swears softly, and stands up. If Party isn’t already dead from bleeding out in the bathtub, he’s going to kill them himself.

It could almost be a funny situation—mistaking hair dye for blood—except for how it wasn’t an easy guess to make.

It’s so incredibly not funny that he starts laughing.

It’s better now that he knows it’s only Party’s stupid fucking dye, though. Ghoul tries to use the water sparingly, but it’s not like it’s drinkable anyway, and the feeling of scrubbing his skin with his bandana—any soap left in the motel has long since been taken—is almost ridiculously soothing. By the time he’s clean, or close enough—well, by the time he’s out of water, which is clean enough—he’s feeling comfortingly exhausted and sluggish, sort of like a zombie. A moderately clean zombie though, one that doesn’t eat gray matter or run slower than Jet Star when he’s tired, so basically a zombie without any of the cool shit.

Although he’s been hungry enough a couple times that he could seriously consider going for internal organs, if the opportunity was there.

He finally runs into Kobra on his way back downstairs and says, “Dude, you gotta remind Poison not to leave their fuckin’ hair dye all over the place, that shit freaked me out cause it looks like blood. Left a huge mess everywhere, too.”

Kobra blinks, confused. “Uh—what?”

“Poison,” he repeats, like Kobra’s gone wave head all of a sudden. “Left dye stains all over the bathroom upstairs? I thought it was blood? Are your ears on, shithead? Is the static clouding your signal?”

“Wait, hold on, fucker,” says Kobra, wincing and actually holding up one hand, “didn’t Party tell you? Almost got ghosted last night by some fucking dirtheads who thought they could mess with our shit. Barely got away—they didn’t have knives or anything, but they broke up some old bottles and shit, and they got Party kinda bad. Stabbed ’em in the side, bled like a motherfucker all over their shirt, that kinda thing.”

Ghoul doesn’t say anything for a moment. He’s going to kill Party, he thinks, furious. Goddamn self-sacrificing martyr-complexed bastard son of a  _ bitch _ .

Probably got themself hurt doing some idiotic heroic shit, too, taking the worst of the attacks so Kobra could get away. Ghoul is seriously going to kill them. Then he’s going to call upon the Witch to bring them back to life just so he can kill them again.

“Right,” says Kobra, staring at him. “I’ll just—yeah, see ya.”

“‘M gonna kill ’em, just so you know,” Ghoul shouts after Kobra, then storms off to find Party Poison and beat the shit out of them for getting the shit beaten out of them.

Party isn’t in any of the bedrooms, any of the bathrooms, the downstairs desk lobby, the lounge, or the balconies. Ghoul finally finds them on the roof, legs dangling off the edge, staring off into the distance.

“Hey, you,” Party says, although they don’t turn around when Ghoul stomps over to the low railing. “What’s the 411?”

“Fuck you,” says Ghoul, sitting down next to them, “you fucking thickheaded idiot.” Party sighs, and Ghoul considers punching them in the face for real, just for a moment. “Stop takin’ your fucking superhero complex out on everyone else, you goddamn piece-of-shit bastard. I swear to god, if you fucking get yourself ghosted, I’ll get the Witch to bring you back just so I can knock the shit outta you myself, you fucking  _ killjoy _ .”

“You gonna hit me?” Party asks. They still haven’t looked at Ghoul.

Ghoul shifts around so that he’s seated behind Party, and loops his arms around their waist, pushing his hands underneath their shirt. He brushes his fingers across warm skin, then finds the rough cloth of the new makeshift bandages, and Party’s breath catches, but they don’t pull away.

“Nah,” says Ghoul finally. “You’re lucky your face is too pretty for that kinda damage. Think I’ll just jack you off up here on the roof since you like my hands so much, then curse you out again for being a fucking idiot, then go get Kobra to fuckin’ babysit you, since you apparently need it so you won’t keep throwing yourself into impossible situations like you’re indestructible.”

He can’t see Party’s smile, but he can hear it in their voice and feel it in the way they lean back against him. “Sounds like a real fuckin’ shiny plan to me, baby.”

There have been all sorts of rumors running all throughout the Zones about the four of them (plus the girl)—that they’re invincible, that Better Living can’t touch them. (“How does it feel to be immortal?” asks Kobra, when Party is groaning about some injury or other; Party flips him off.) Basically, they become somewhat of a legend, which only makes Korse and Better Living even more determined to exterminate them.

It takes a while for them to run into that particular song of trouble - not until they're juicing back up at another Dead Peg out wayside.

“Heard a rumor that the Fabulous Killjoys got themselves ghosted out on Resurrection Road.”

Party smiles as winningly as they can. “Yeah, yeah, you’re entitled to whatever you think you’ve been hearing, baby. Dontcha know killjoys never die?”

It’s about this time when the newspapers and televisions back in Battery City start to mention them—word spreads from the desert into the city, which is unheard of. There are rumors going around that there might even be a rebellion, led by the Fabulous Killjoys with the intention of overthrowing Better Living.

The thing is, though, they don’t want that; they never wanted to try to take down the city, or Better Living, or even Korse—they just wanted to be left alone, and that wasn’t happening, so they fought back.

It isn’t just a group of kids disobeying their parents’ best wishes, it’s a family trying desperately not to be torn apart. They’ve all had to grow up before it was their time.

The only thing that they can all agree on when it comes to the future is that they want the motorbaby to be happy.

Party wants her to have the sort of happy life that they and Kobra didn’t get to have.

Jet wants her to learn and grow and love and take care of herself and others and not have to go hungry or be hurt or frightened.

Ghoul wants her to stay good enough that she can be able to trust people comfortably, that it doesn’t take a battering ram to break down her walls. (Party makes a dick joke here, but does it quietly, because of the No Corrupting The Motorbaby rule.)

Whatever it is, they want her to have a better life. You know, better living, except the actual good kind.

Any kind of better living would be preferable to what happens the next early afternoon - an acid rainstorm.

"Mother of shit, goddess of my dick and balls," Fun Ghoul swears, flinging himself into the back seat of the Trans Am, soaked to the skin. The acid rain won't ruin anything of theirs permanently as long as they get out of its reach quick enough - hopefully - but it still means they have to stop and change clothes unless they want their skin to fall off after long enough exposure.

“If this fucks up my paint job, I swear to god I will ghost the entire fucking desert,” Party says, low and threatening.

Jet laughs. “Party Poison versus the acid rain, now  _ that’s _ a fight I’d wanna witness.”

The girl bounces in her seat, clinging to the back of Party’s head rest. “Me too! Party, you gotta do that!”

“Kiddo, if I could, I would,” Party says gamely, taking Kobra’s practiced eye-roll in stride. “I got that boom-boom-pow that could lightning-shock the rain right outta the sky.”

“You’d get electrocuted,” Ghoul mutters. “Crazy motherfucker.”

The rain finally slows, then stops, and Party steps on the brake with a relieved groan. “All right, everybody outta the car, we gotta take stock of the damage.”

They strip off their jackets (or vest, in Ghoul’s case) and hang them to dry on the gnarled branches of a few nearby Joshua trees; they don’t really have that many extra changes of clothes, since there isn’t  _ that _ much room in the Trans Am to spare for superfluous supplies, but there are blankets aplenty, and Jet and Kobra get a fire going. The girl huddles in a nest of blankets with only her head sticking out.

“I think we can relax a bit,” Jet says. He sounds almost apologetic, like he isn’t sure he should be saying anything. “Since it’s so soon after the storm, and all.”

“’M gonna go smoke, then,” says Ghoul, gesturing with one hand in the direction of the cluster of Joshua trees where they’ve hung up their clothes to dry off somewhat. “I’ll take first watch too, save you the trouble.”

They plan to rest for the remainder of the day and most of the night huddled in a little cluster of Joshua trees, drying their clothes underneath plastic tarps from the boot of the Trans Am. Fun Ghoul considers it some sort of a fucking relief to be able to lean against the rough bark of the tree and light a cigarette. He’s been using the same lighter for as long as he can remember; quiet moments are few and far between, and nicotine doesn’t come cheap. The only reliable supplier is Tommy Chow Mein, and he doesn’t exactly have a particularly tender spot in his heart for Fun Ghoul and his need for cigarettes.

He smokes quietly, watching the others. Party flits around restlessly, unable to settle down, until Kobra finally seems to get tired of the pacing and grabs onto Party’s leg, and the two of them topple into the sand.

Ghoul almost smiles at the sight of them wrestling on the ground. The girl sheds her blanket cocoon and joins in with a soft yelping noise, and then they’re all laughing, even Jet, who’s been heating up a few cans of Power Pup over the small fire.

They look comfortable. They look like a family.

Without him. Ghoul exhales smoke and tries not to think about it. If he’s resentful, it means he gives a shit, and that’s the mistake he won’t let himself fully make.

“Tell me a story,” the girl demands around a yawn. She curls a little closer to Party’s knees underneath the blankets, her back to the slowly dying fire, and looks up at them sleepily. “Tell me a story about the best thing you ever did out here.”

Party seems surprised; they hesitate before answering. “Aw, hell, the  _ best _ thing? That ain’t an easy choice to make, kiddo. Hey, you remember those sparklers Kobra showed you the other day?”

She nods. “Yeah. They’re all gold and sparkly but they don’t burn like normal fires.”

“Jack-paz, motorbaby! Imagine those, ’cept like, a million times more awesome-sauce. That’s what fireworks are like. There was this one time when Ghoul an’ I went to this crash at the Hyper Thrust—I think Cold Dead Hands was opening, but I dunno, I wasn’t paying attention to the band so much as everything else. The way the music felt, the people everywhere, the lights, the whole thing. Fuckin’ slaughtermatic.”

“And Ghoul?”

“And Ghoul,” Party confirms, and Ghoul rolls his eyes even though Party can’t see him. “An’ there were fireworks! It was real late at night, and when the fireworks started poppin’, they looked almost like stars. You remember stars, from the Battery?”

She shrugs and cuddles a little closer. “Dunno. Kinda.”

“It was even shinier than that. Afterwards we went and got in the car and just drove for miles an’ miles. Finally stopped in the middle of—I think it was out by Gertie’s, you know Gertie, yeah? Now, don’t tell Jet or he’d start a cycle, but we just went and sat on the hood, leaning back against the windshield, all quiet and shit, and watched where the stars woulda been until the sun came up.”

The girl is asleep.

Ghoul gives them an accusing look when Party finally stands up again, wincing obviously at the sudden movement, and walks over to lean against the Joshua tree where Ghoul has been standing and finishing his cigarette. “You made that shit up. Who d’you think I am, motherfucker?”

“Bitch,” says Party affectionately. “It got the motorbaby to sleep, didn’t it?”

“You’re fucking impossible.” Ghoul shakes his head. “When you’re not busy dreaming up some alternate version of me that takes you on the sappiest fuckin’ dates, you could spare the time to ask if I wanted to go steady or some shit. It ain’t a goddamn mystery.”

“The best thing I ever did in the desert was the first time I stepped foot out of the slime and stench of the Battery,” says Party. “I did my time and I’ll be spending the rest of my days out here until I’m nothing but dust in the wind, baby, you know it.”

“I fucking know it,” Ghoul mumbles. “You’ll get yourself ghosted one of these days and break your brother’s bleeding heart.”

Party tilts their head to the side. “Not yours?”

“I’d be right with you when the record ends, asshole,” says Ghoul. He looks away so he doesn’t do something idiotic like punch Party’s stupid fucking face.

“Hey, now,” says Party, lifting his chin with one hand; they usually love reminding him that they’re tall enough that he has to go up on his toes to reach their mouth, but this is something gentler, less  _ teasing _ and more  _ promising _ . “I didn’t say you wouldn’t.”

Ghoul doesn’t look them in the eye, but he lets them turn his face back towards them and press a kiss on his forehead. It feels like the sort of thing they would do for the motorbaby, careful and sweet.

“You know when I said I wouldn’t wanna settle with you,” Party starts to say.

“I don’t wanna settle either, asshole.”

“But you’re still family, you’re part of this fucked-up family whether you like it or not, and that’s my final word on the matter. It’s you an’ me an’ Jet an’ Kobra an’ the kiddo, and we’re a fucking family, dontcha forget it.”

Ghoul snorts. “You’re the mom, ain’t you?”

“Fuck you, I’m a fuckin’ lady,” says Party, and lets go of his chin to shove at his chest with one hand. “I got class.”

“Yeah? Too much class to let me suck you off?”

Party pretends to think about it for a moment, then sighs, as if reluctant. “Fine. But you gotta be quiet so we don’t wake the motorbaby or the others.”

Ghoul splutters. “ _ Me _ ? You’re the loud one, you—fuck you.”

Party covers their mouth with one hand to stifle their laughter. “Yeah, yeah. We’ll get to that later, have some patience. C’mon,” they say, and pull Ghoul around the side of the car until they’re hidden behind the thicket of Joshua trees with their twisted branches and spiny leaves. “Get to it, then.”

“Bossy,” says Ghoul, but he leans forwards to kiss them anyway, pushing them backwards until Party’s back is pressed up against the trunk of one of the trees, the bark flaking off onto their clothes. Party opens their mouth willingly and lets Ghoul take the lead for once, pliant when he presses closer.

“Mm,” Party says, lifting one hand to stroke over Ghoul’s cheekbone, brushing the pad of their thumb underneath his eye. They try to kiss him again, but Ghoul ducks away and mouths at their neck instead, sliding his hand between Party’s legs and rubbing over the front of their jeans. “Yeah, fuck, c’mon.”

“Shut up,” Ghoul says, and lifts both his hands. “I told you not to be loud, but you just can’t quit talking, can you? Fuck, I shoulda brought somethin’ to gag you with.”

Party raises their eyebrows, contemplating. “Oh? Sounds hot. Next time you can use your bandana or something, I guess, when all our stuff isn’t soaked.”

“Next time. Whatever,” says Ghoul. He presses his fingertips against Party’s lips, and Party opens their mouth, sucking on his fingers, moving their tongue slowly back and forth. Party shuts their eyes, breathing heavily, and Ghoul gets his other hand back down between their legs to undo the button on their jeans and slide his hand inside.

Party keeps mouthing at his fingers while he jacks them off, but pulls away a moment later with a frustrated noise. There’s saliva all over Ghoul’s hand and Party’s chin; Party doesn’t wipe it off, just says roughly, “I can’t fucking kiss you, fucker, let me fuckin’ kiss you.”

Ghoul doesn’t stop jerking them off, just sticks out his tongue and covers their mouth with his hand again. Party shoves it away.

“Let me fucking  _ kiss you _ ,” Party hisses, grabbing roughly for Ghoul’s face and pressing their mouth against his. It’s messy and needy, less of a real kiss and more of a push of tongues and teeth, open-mouthed and slick with spit. Party kisses him again while Ghoul moves his hand slowly on their dick until Party has to pull back and gasp for breath, trembling all over. “Fuck, ah, I’m not—just—”

“Weak knees?” Ghoul croons, rubbing his mouth against Party’s neck in the same rhythm he’s rubbing his hand against their dick. “I already know I’m a good lay, you don’t really needta remind me.”

“I’d remind you to stop fuckin’ talking,” Party growls, and bites the shell of his ear, sucking the earlobe into their mouth until Ghoul’s hips jerk and his breath catches sharply on the inhale. “Yeah?  _ Yeah _ ?”

“Yeah,” Ghoul says, and twists his wrist, satisfied when Party’s grip loosens and their back arches, “yeah, baby, just like that.”

“What’s SCARECROW stand for anyway?” asks Ghoul, voice caught somewhere between sarcasm and genuine interest. “Or did they not teach that kinda shit in the monochrome towers of the electric city?”

“Security Council, uh, Assignment Regulate—Regulated—aw, fuck.” Party rubs a hand over their face. “I don’t have a fuckin’ clue, man. S’ funny how quickly you forget what happened in the city, when the whole point of leaving is to reverse the effects of all the pills and shit like that.”

Ghoul doesn’t look amused. “Don’t know,” he says slowly, “I don’t think I’ll be forgetting what happened to  _ me _ anytime soon.”

“You gonna finally tell me the story behind that scar you like to keep secret?”

“It ain’t a secret, numbskull,” Ghoul says, shaking his head. “Ask any desert rat you come across, they’ll know what the hell it means. It means someone thought I was a fuckin’ turncoat and decided to make me pay for that assumption. Figured if I was gonna tattle to the Battery, I might as well keep fuckin’ smiling.”

Party hums neutrally, then says, “Shit, baby, you never told me you were a joyrider.”

“Cause I’ve never been one, motherfucker,” says Ghoul, his voice low and dangerous. “Stayed clean my whole damn life, minus the time I spent wasting away in the Battery. But everyone thinks I am, with this fucker on my face. Can’t cut a deal with anyone, can’t go to shows or fucking swap meets, can’t—can’t fucking  _ find _ a fucking crew, cause the whole damn desert thinks I turned snake.”

“‘Cept us,” Party says.

Ghoul frowns. “Yeah,” he says, guarded. His jaw is still clenched and his fingers are curled into fists on his knees, so Party shifts closer and presses a kiss underneath his ear, sliding their mouth down and across his jaw until they reach the corner of his mouth, leaving another brief kiss there.

“I like it,” says Party quietly in his ear, and rubs their tongue over the raised skin, savoring the feeling. “It’s hot.”

“You’re fucked up,” Ghoul says, raising his eyebrows, but he lets Party explore the scar with their mouth.

“ _ You _ like it,” Party says, almost accusingly.

Ghoul snorts. “I like that you like it, baby, don’t push it.”

The next time they manage to get off the road for long enough to stop by a swap meet for supplies, everyone stares at them. None of them wanted to draw too much attention, especially not with the girl tagging along and holding Kobra’s and Jet’s hands, but the whispers are unavoidable. Party is worried at first that the reaction won’t be welcoming, but instead it’s overwhelmingly positive; everyone wants to talk to them, touch them, shake their hands, marvel over them. The Fabulous Killjoys are the four roaches Better Living’s Exterminators can’t seem to stamp out. Neon gods of the airwaves, ghosts in the static.

“You might be legends, but I still gotta feed my kids,” the man behind the counter says apologetically. “It’s fifty c’s.”

Party hands the money over. “I gotcha, man, we got a kid too.”

The vendor slips the carbons into a rough leather bag attached to his belt and Party thinks about Show Pony saying that some people believed that the zonerunners were going to save the world.

Fifty carbons is a lot. Party knows that Better Living has pulled back on the supply trains running through the desert, cutting off the primary source of input for the desert’s industry; food is scarce, potable water is scarce, batteries are scarce, everything is scarce. Everything is expensive.

Party gives Ghoul the Mousekat bobblehead later, when they’re heading back towards the Trans Am, supplies in their bags. “Hey, Fun-sized,” Party says, hurrying slightly to fall into step beside Ghoul and holding out the keychain mouse head, “happy birthday from me to you. I gotcha something.”

Ghoul doesn’t take the bobblehead, at first. He just looks at it for a moment, staring mutely, until Party groans, exasperated, and pushes it into his hand, curling his fingers around the blue-and-white plastic.

“S’ a present, fuckface, do ya know what to do with it? Don’t bother thanking me or anything, s’ just that I saw you had one before, and we got your old rust-bucket blown sky-high kinda indirectly a while back, so—as an apology of sorts, I suppose.”

“Oh,” says Ghoul quietly. His voice is muffled through the bandana, but his eyes widen a fraction, like he didn’t mean to say anything. “I—right. Fuck.”

“Fuck,” Party agrees. They think about hugging him or messing up his hair like they would if he were Kobra, but it probably wouldn’t be a good idea. Ghoul looks like he’s wound so tight that even touching his shoulder gently through the rough fabric of his vest would cause him to shatter into a million sharp pieces, and then Party would cut their fingers on all the jagged edges. “Hang it up in the car then, idiot, and let’s motor.”

Ghoul attaches the bobblehead to the dangling lanyard on the rearview mirror without saying anything else, intentionally or otherwise, then settles into his usual spot in the backseat, pushing his knees against the back of the driver’s seat obnoxiously.

“Motherfucker,” Party snaps, and Ghoul’s eyes narrow at the corners in that way that means he’s either scowling or smirking; it’s difficult to tell with the cloth covering his mouth, but Party’s willing to bet cold hard carbons if they hadn’t just spent their last few that it’s the latter.

“I’d always choose Kobra over anyone,” says Party quietly. They're sitting on the roof of some building or other, after one of Party Poison's endless nightmares. “Even Jet, even the motorbaby, even you. You understand, dontcha? I fuckin’ love alla you crazy motherfuckers, but Kobra’s just—he’s the one thing that kept me goin’ when I didn’t think I could make it. He got me outta the Battery and back home when I needed it most. S’ just different.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Ghoul says, and drags his fingers across the sharp metal on the edge of the roof until it hurts. “I gotcha. Blood is blood is blood, all that shit.”

Party sighs. “You don’t believe me, do ya.”

It’s not a question, so Ghoul decides he doesn’t have to give an answer. The truth is that he’s still reluctant to fully trust any of them, for one big reason and probably a myriad of smaller ones.

He thinks, Party probably already knows that much. They’re dumb sometimes, but they’re no idiot.

The biggest and most dangerous reason is that he doesn’t fit in with the rest of them. He feels like he’s constantly a placeholder for something better, like they’ll drop him as soon as they find their real missing piece, no farewell except a hasty  _ thanks for the ride but you can leave now! _ and then he’ll be alone again.

The name that flies around the Zones is the _ Fabulous Killjoys _ , which doesn’t include him, because he was born in the Zones instead of the Battery, and therefore isn’t technically a  _ killjoy _ , no matter how often Party scoffs and rolls their eyes and says they’re working on redefining the terminology.

He also knows full well that he doesn’t have any real connection to any of them—Party and Kobra are tied together through blood and history, and even Jet knew them before any of them left the Battery. But Fun Ghoul’s just some abrasive moody demo kid they picked up out in the Zones; he’s a loner, a nobody, with too many ghosts and too many scars.

And even if he and Party have their friends-with-benefits arrangement going on, they’re both open about the fact that settling down together and raising a perfect little nuclear family, blah fuckin’ blah, has never really been something either of them wants to see in their future, together or otherwise.

Neither of them really expects to live that long.

And that's to say nothing of Party Poison's impossible dreams. Ghoul's no turned-off road blinker; he believes in the Witch and her endless unraveling hands as sure as he believes in his kicked-up blaster and the boots on his feet. He knows to stay far away from her kindly touch unless he wants to wind up ghosted fifty-five clicks down Route Guano, and he might be impulsive but he wouldn't do that to the motorbaby who's currently nested up in the back of the Trans Am, wrapped in Jet Star's leather jacket while Jet himself keeps watch.

But Party Poison's been having dreams, and Ghoul doesn't know how to tell them that he's pretty fucking sure they're a never-ending open socket god-conduit straight from the sands to the Witch's purple-feather coat itself.

He'll figue it out eventually.

There are always the small quiet moments where Fun Ghoul can't help but think to himself - _maybe we could live like this_.

A short while ago they'd hopped on back to the old diner again to pick up some time. Show Pony and the girl had fast become a close road-runner duet for life; they'd even brought out a real shiny pair of silver skates for the girl to get her own first set of wheels. And she'd been determined to teach Fun Ghoul the ropes when it came to letters and numbers - sitting cross-applesauce on the ground, dragging her finger along a line in the dirt; _this is F, this is U, this is N, that spells F-U-N_ \- and he hadn't minded it that much even, close enough to jack-paz or suchlike. _This is G, this is H, this is O, this is U - that's me? - no, silly! U! - oh! - and that's L, that spells G-H-O-U-L, now you do it!_ \- and he had. FUN GHOUL, scrawled in the dirt. She'd even drawn his call sign code-marker, the skull with the slit eye and the stitched-up mouth.

Party sighs and leans their head against Ghoul’s shoulder again, slouching slightly to make the angle work. Ghoul briefly considers shoving them away and going back inside, but he suddenly finds that he doesn’t want to, so instead he shifts until he can wrap his arm around Party’s shoulders and pull them even closer, pressed up against his side.


End file.
